


Drawn By Sorrow

by IrLaimsaAraLath



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blood and Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Multi, Slow Burn, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-12-20 08:59:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11917530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrLaimsaAraLath/pseuds/IrLaimsaAraLath
Summary: Corypheus is dead.  The Breach is closed.  Solas is gone.Niyera would have thought that was the end of it.  Inquisitor no more.  But a string of assassination attempts that begin during the "victory tour" make it impossible for her to retreat into anonymity.  And, the return of a familiar face makes her question whether disappearing is still something she wants.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This starts post-game, pre-Trespasser. I wanted to write me some Abelas, and for some reason, I couldn't just be happy with some smut. I had to make it a stoooooory.
> 
> *Sigh.* 
> 
> I'll update tags as things progress.

A low, even voice echoed through the crystal, distorted faintly by the magic of the item, “This will not be easy for you.  She will resist.  We must not be discovered.”  A second voice, deeper and with a different inflection, replied, “Leave the Inquisitor to me.  I will make sure the endeavor is a success.”  The crystal pulsed with a faint golden glow as the echo of a final word fell through the crystal, “Good.”

 

* * *

“Inquisitor,” Josephine scolded impatiently as she shooed Niyera’s hands away from the laces of her bodice, “It is important that we dress according to the aesthetic of the nation we’re visiting.  Consider it a show of respect.”  The elf sighed as she forced her hands down to her sides before turning an eye down her body once more.  “Why can’t the Nevarrans respect my profound need to breathe?” she complained, already back to tugging at the laces of her bodice.  The diplomat rolled her eyes as she slapped at the Inquisitor’s hands, “You  _ can _ breathe.  If you couldn’t, you wouldn’t be  _ complaining _ so much.”  Niyera leveled a bland stare on the Antivan, screwed her lips into a distinct downward turn, and straightened the line of her back.  “Why can’t we just wear those frightful red wool get-ups?  Even they were better than this.”  Josephine gasped as if she’d just suggested that they all run naked through the ballroom and pressed a hand to her chest.  “We can’t be seen in the same outfit twice!  Besides, that was business.  This is a celebration,” the woman finished as she gestured grandly.  Niyera sucked on her teeth with full knowledge that her advisor  _ hated _ when she made that sound and threw up her hands in resignation.  Josephine smiled in triumph, but couldn’t resist adding another jab:  “Honestly.  You’re harder to dress than Cullen.”

 

She had never felt so simultaneously naked and overdressed.  The skirt of the gown was long, full, and heavy, tailored of a thick velvet in a shade of green so dark, it almost seemed black.  She also wore a chemise of the same hue, but that was only obvious because the sleeves were visible.  The deep neckline barely peeked above the upper hem of the gold brocade bodice, where her breasts were pushed together and perched by and on the garment’s stiff boning.  Hardly anything at all was covered!  Her hair was ridiculous, all piled on one side beneath a garish ornament that looked rather like the remains of a dead raven.   _ It’s necessary _ , Leliana had said.  The elf was letting her hair grow out from its formerly side-shaved style, and it had only managed to grow to brush the tip of her ear.  The spymaster had insisted that it was a minor disaster.  Creators forbid anyone in the world see her as she actually was.  With her vallaslin gone, she could  _ almost _ pass for human on first glance.  If seen at a distance.  The ears always gave it away, of course.  “There!” Josephine exclaimed, stepping back to admire her work.  The Inquisitor’s mind had drifted as the Antivan went about her makeup, and now that she was fully aware of tacky paste on her lips and the kohl on her eyes, she  _ really _ felt uncomfortable.

 

The night was a procession of drinks and dances, dull dignitaries and their demanding egos.  Stealing a dance here and there with Dorian or Bull were the only highlights of the night.  Well, that and the miniature chocolate tarts that kept making the rounds.  Caramel-laced crusts with a chocolate creme brulee filling and a plump, seedless blackberry on top.  They were sinfully delicious.  Leliana did what Leliana does, which is pleasantly mingle, laugh, admire shoes, and watch  _ everyone _ like a hawk while listening to five different conversations all at once.  Josephine kept casually glancing her way and miming a reminder for her to watch for  _ crumbs _ in her  _ decollete _ and to  _ smile _ .  Every once and in a while, she would petulantly stuff another tart into her mouth and smile around it just to see Josephine’s frustration flare hot on her cheeks while she was in a position to do nothing about it.   _ It’s the little pleasures in life. _  Cullen lingered just at the edge of the ballroom, dodging clusters of fawning women in an attempt to keep a sharp eye on security.  He would pass her a timid smile from time to time; she’d months ago forgiven him for his lyrium addiction-induced indiscretion in her chambers, but he still seemed to harbor a lack of forgiveness for himself.

 

Cassandra was the only person here that seemed as equally uncomfortable as she did, which surprised Niyera a little being that this was the Seeker’s homeland.   _ Too many memories _ , she would say, and the Inquisitor couldn’t fault her.  In one way or another, they all had that problem.  --  When she found a spare moment when neither Josephine nor Cullen’s eyes were watching, she slipped outside into the courtyard to get some fresh air.  The immediate area was lit with oil lamps held on lofty stands, casting a golden blanket of light across the courtyard and deepening the shadows that the flames couldn’t reach.  Guards stood on either side of the castle’s doors, and another pair could be found at the bottom of the stairs.  They were dressed smartly and bobbed their heads in greeting as she passed.  She returned the gesture and was grateful for the small talk they didn’t make.  A spare few sounds reached her ears:  the burbling of the fountain, the guttering of the lamps, and the occasional whisper of a breeze.  She savored the relative silence.  She found it challenging to endure the constant roar of ballrooms and great courts and dining halls, where so many voices blurred into one dissonant hum.  Her exhaled breath painted a cloudy plume of steam on the chilled air as she passed her gaze up to the sky.  It was dark, sparse with clouds, while the stars winked in the breaks in between.

 

Somewhere behind her, she heard a heavy thud then the noise of metal on stone.  She turned just in time to see the first guard fall, clutching at his neck, then the second.  The guards at the top of the steps raised the alarm and had begun to run toward her.  Immediately, she raised a barrier around the men and herself, just in time to see an arrow lance off the ephemeral curve of the dome.  Tracing the arrow’s path back to the source, she found a dark-clad figure atop the courtyard wall, and when he whistled, she found another on ground level at her back.  The nearer attacker must have been a mage as her barriers began to waver, forcing her to struggle to maintain them.  Around one of the guards, her barrier was breached, and an arrow found its way into the man’s shoulder.  She screamed at the shrouded archer in fury, even as Cullen and his detail began to surge out of the castle.  Static in white-violet threads broke across her eyes as she threw out a hand toward the archer, who was now on the ground and running toward her.  Lightning lanced between them, and the attacker was knocked off his feet and stunned.

 

“Inquisitor!  Behind you!” she heard Cullen shout, and she turned, reinforcing her barrier as she found herself face to face with her attacker.  An effort make herself smaller to avoid any incoming strike proved useless; she couldn’t move in this Blight-damned  _ gown _ .  However, before the figure could strike, a haze of sooty smoke flared up behind him, and she saw only the silver flash of a blade before the attacker dropped dead at her feet, throat gashed open.  In a whoosh that sounded like the night sucking in a breath, the smoke was displaced, and she heard the sound again at her back.  She whipped around in time to see the same smoke materialize over the man she’d downed, the same flash of a blade, and the same disappearance afterward.  Confusion etched lines in her brow as she looked over to Cullen, whose detail had fanned out, covering every inch of the courtyard.  

 

When she was reasonably certain the threat had passed, she let the power of her barriers dissipate and motioned for assistance for the wounded guard.  “What in the Maker’s name was that?” Cullen shouted, followed quickly by a turn on his heel and a demand, “Get the Captain of the Guard.  NOW.”  Her brow was still furrowed in frustration when Dorian and Josephine quickly came to her side as Bull and Leliana remained behind to inspect the murdered guards.  “Were you hurt?” the Tevinter asked, and she answered with a shake of her head.  Now that the blood was no longer rushing in her ears, something stirred beneath her own thoughts -- the voices of the Well whispered, calmly, quietly.  It was something that sounded familiar but that she couldn’t immediately place.  She shook her head again as she turned her eyes to Josephine.  “Next time, I pick my clothes.  I can’t fight in this...monstrosity,” Niyera said, her tone serious, but with just a hint of a “ _ I told you so _ ” in her voice.  Josephine made a disgusted noise that sounded suspiciously like Cassandra was rubbing off on her, but she really didn’t have much room to argue.  “Fine,” was all the Antivan said as she grumbled and folded her arms.

 

* * *

 

When they finally returned to Skyhold, she had but a scant few days of rest before a host of foreign ambassadors arrived for negotiations and socializing and diplomatic acrobatics.  She wasn’t particularly interested in any of those things, primarily because she felt her attentions would be more effective elsewhere.  Josephine had spent an adequate amount of time schooling her on human politics and such, and if pressed, she could put on a good act.  But, since Corypheus had been killed, the days had blurred together and left her with a tangle of time that had seen her engaged in endeavors she simply didn’t find to be of the highest importance.  “Victory” tours and balls and grandstanding.  A lot of pompous nobles standing around, clapping themselves on the back for having had the wisdom to advance her as the Inquisitor, when it fact, she (and the rest of the Inquisition) had to fight, tooth and nail, for recognition.  The lot of it had drawn her patience thin, and she struggled to care for everyone else’s sake, if not her own.  But her mind, along with her heart, were somewhere else entirely.  Solas had disappeared.  He hadn’t just wandered off.  He hadn’t just slipped away.  He vanished; even Leliana couldn’t find him.  That usually meant one of two things:  you’re very, very good, or very, very dead.  The latter she simply wasn’t willing to consider.  There was no hint of him anywhere.  For months now, the spymaster’s scouts had been hunting, but there wasn’t even the barest whisper to be found.

 

He had long ago told her that they couldn’t be together.  Attempting to come to terms with that had nearly killed her, quite literally.  She never did accept it fully.  Of course, she  _ logically _ understood the situation, even if she didn’t understand  _ why _ .  But, the heart cares nothing for logic.  She had hoped, however she had tried to deny it, that things would change.  Circumstances could be different or that he could be swayed or that maybe, just once, something might go as it  _ should _ instead of how it  _ must _ .  In the end, he was as good as his word.  The last place she’d seen him had been on the battlefield.  It was a brief shared glance.  It troubled her at the time, the darkness that had settled in his eyes and the soft whisper of the Well’s voices in the back of her head.  She should have listened.  But, instead, she allowed an offer of congratulations to turn her attention for the merest second, and when she looked back, he was gone.  That night in Skyhold, she’d found a short stack of books waiting for her on the couch.  She instantly recognized them as the ones that had sat for so long on the corner of Solas’s desk.  They were books on art, the arcane, ancient Elvhen -- that last was written in his own hand, for her, in an effort to help her learn the language.  She realized only slowly that he must have placed them here before they left for the final confrontation and, if that was the case, he had intended to leave regardless of the outcome.  She had opened each of them, flipped through the pages, and found the offering of a pressed flower in every one.  A stalk of purple hyacinth for sorrow and regret.  A white clover blossom for remembrance.  A sprig of heliotrope for everlasting love.  And, a gold-hearted dark pink zinnia to invoke thoughts of absent friends.  What little remained of her heart fell to pieces and left her as tears.

 

A quick fluttering of her eyes blinked back the memory, and she gazed down the length of the hall from her place on her throne.   _ Her throne _ .  Creators, it was so pretentious.  She was grateful when she saw Josephine beckoning her with a wave of her hand and immediately rose to join her advisor.  “Inquisitor, I’d like for you to meet -,” and it was at that point she mostly stopped listening.  Of course, she smiled at the appropriate times, shook the outstretched hands, and thoughtlessly made pleasantries with Lord or Duke Suchandwhat, but she was distracted.  The voices that were always a hum, at minimum, in her head rose in volume, and while she couldn’t make out the words, an understanding settled on her.   _ Danger _ .  Her viridian eyes danced away from the dignitary before her, scanning the crowd gathered as she hunted.   _ Golden hair _ , the voices said,  _ eyes like freshly turned earth _ .   _ A dagger _ .  Before she realized, she had turned away from Josephine, much to the woman’s dismay, and was pushing her way through the crowd.  She saw it, a flash of hair, a glance of the eyes.  Her body vibrated as she lost the figure in the crowd, and her expression scrunched in frustration as she shouldered her way through clusters of her guests.  She stopped almost dead center in the hall as the Well’s voices rose as one, ringing through her mind in a single, clear tone:   _ Behind you _ .  

 

The words of a spell were on her lips even as she turned and the air thickened around her as she raised a hand.  Time slowed, seconds ticked by like hours, as everything ground to a crawl.  An orb of concentrated force burst from her palm and caught, only a foot or so from her face, a double-edged dagger.  The collective gasp of those gathered brought time rushing back to her, and she sucked in a quick breath as she stared into the eyes of her attacker.  Cullen’s men, the commander himself, and Cassandra were all advancing even as she plucked the dagger from the air.  Before any of them could reach the man, a haze of smoke burst behind him, and a flash of silver opened his throat.  The fine nobles caught in the spray of blood shrieked, the ones that hadn’t fainted straight away, and stampeded toward the exit.  Fighting through them was like trying to guide a rowboat through a tidal wave, but when she finally broke free of the mindless throng, she found the golden-haired man dead and another struggling between Cullen and one of the guard.  Cassandra had drawn her sword down on the captive, who was still shrouded in a cloak and hood, and she barked, “Take him to the dungeon.”  The commander yanked on the man’s arm, and Niyera saw the white flash of a braid fall from his hood.  In her head, the voices murmured softly.  “Wait,” she said, breaking through the line of the guard.  She caught another glimpse, this time of a coppery-sheened legguard.  The voices were insistent now.  “Cullen!  Wait!” she shouted, and the conveyance stopped short, the captive forcibly turned to face the Inquisitor.  

 

From within the shadows of the captive’s hood, the long tail of a white braid had escaped, and when she was close enough to touch him, she instantly knew.  “Abelas,” she murmured, slipping her hand into the hood to push it back from the elf’s face.  Pale golden eyes regarded her evenly, a small slip of a smile on his lips.  “ _ En'an'sal'en,  _ Inquisitor,” he offered in return, no longer struggling against his captors.  She glanced between Cullen and his guard briefly, “Let him go, Commander.  He is no danger to me.”  The soldier looked at his commander, and the commander looked to the Inquisitor.  “Niyera,” Cullen started, but Cassandra cut him off as she sheathed her sword and approached.  “She’s right.  He was at Mythal’s temple.  He and his people aided us against Sampson.”  Reluctantly, Cullen and his guard relinquished their hold on Abelas, and he straightened, adjusting his cloak back into place.  “ _ Ma Serannas _ ,” the elf said, nodding briefly to Cassandra, then to the Inquisitor.  “It was you...back in Nevarra,” Niyera said, head tilting as she idly thumbed the hilt of the dagger in her hand.  “Indeed,” he answered simply, the distinct cadence of his voice seeming to lull the Well’s chorus in her mind.  

 

“I think I am owed an explanation,” she suggested, and from behind Abelas, Cullen quipped, “I think we all are.”  The elf didn’t spare a glance over his shoulder, but instead looked unerringly at the Inquisitor.  “You are, and I would give you one,” he paused, turning his eyes to the stragglers and gossip-mongers beginning to gather again in the hall.  “But, not here,” he finished.  She nodded her understanding, then passed a look between Cassandra and Cullen.  “If you both could, let’s clear the hall so we can address this matter,” she said as she glanced to the corpse bleeding out on the stone, “with a minimum of fuss.  And, commander, if you could double the guard and make a thorough sweep of the grounds.  The assassin got by us somehow, and I’d like to know how that was.”  The Seeker nodded, the Commander tapped a hand to his chest, and both stoically turned to go about their orders.  “And you, Abelas, come with me,” she said, motioning for him to join her as she started toward her quarters.

 

* * *

 

Without question, the Sentinel had followed her, and he stood watching her with reserved and impassive eyes as she settled on the couch.  When she crossed her legs, she motioned for him to join her, but he remained unmoving.  “I would rather stand.”  A quirk of her brow acknowledged the rebuff, and she folded her arms across her lap at the wrists.  “As you like.  I have to say, I’m quite surprised to see you.  I’d thought you’d gone,” she offered.  He was just as she remembered him, all stiff lines and upright stature, at ease with himself, but at the same time poised and ready.  Though, she had never seen him with his hood completely down.  Once, she’d seen the tip of his braid as he was chasing Morrigan to the well and again when he departed, but she hadn’t realized it was so long.  It fell in a neat plait from a shock white-blonde hair atop his head, which was shorn close on each side.  The vallaslin that gracefully arched across his brow trailed back over his scalp, terminating just above his ears, which themselves were adorned with several gold hoops and studs.  “I did go for a time.  But, I was called back.  It was...unexpected,” he replied, gilded eyes lingering on hers.  “Called?  By whom?” she queried, brow inching up a fraction as the Well’s voices rose above a hum in her mind.  

 

For a moment, he seemed surprised by her asking, then even that small hint of emotion slipped back behind the facade of his neutral expression.  “You, Inquisitor,” he answered simply, head canting to one side as he regarded her.  “Me?  I-,” and she paused, the chorus of voices in her head solidifying to one that she could clearly understand.  “Ah, the Well, you mean,” and she nodded her understanding as she stood from the couch and approached him.  His body shifted to keep her in his sights as she moved; it made the coarse fabric of his cloak rustle and the plates of his armor tink together.  “Is that why you were following me?” her eyes tilted up to his with the question, and the smooth gravel of his voice answered without hesitation, “Partially, yes.”  Her arms crossed as her brow lifted, “Only partially?  What is the rest of the reason?”  Placidly, he clasped his hands behind his back, and though there was certainly no smile on his lips, she could hear something of the smug expression in his words, “I find your security lacking.  I think you leave yourself unnecessarily vulnerable to attack.”  

 

She couldn’t help the huff of laughter, and the immovable lines of Abelas’s face finally  _ moved _ , his lips turning into a deep frown and his brow creasing as it lowered over his eyes.  “I fail to see the humor in this, Inquisitor.  You were nearly slain in Nevarra.”  She waved dismissively as she pressed her lips down tight over the laughter, smiling reservedly before she finally spoke, “I’m sorry, you’re right.  It isn’t funny.  I was just imagining the look on Cullen’s face when I tell him this.”  One corner of the elf’s mouth quirked, “I will inform him, if you prefer.”  Niyera shook her head lightly, “I think I can manage, though you will have to be the one to detail the failings.”  The Sentinel nodded, but offered nothing further as she gazed across at him.  Silence stretched between them as she waited for him to speak, and when he didn’t, she shifted uneasily and cleared her throat.  “What are your intentions, then?  What are your plans after we talk to Cullen?”  The tone in his voice told her he hadn’t expected her to need to ask.  “I will be staying.  Your safety can obviously not be trusted to these shem.”

 

* * *

 

At first, Cullen had railed sternly against the idea of Abelas staying.   _ If he wanted to be of aid, why not just come to us? _  “Would you have been any more accepting then?  This way, he’s already proven his worth.  He’s saved my life...twice,” she had reminded the Commander.  She thought perhaps Cullen was still a bit stung at having his defenses dissected by the elf, though every one of his points and suggestions had been valid.  With help from Cassandra, she finally convinced Cullen to relent, and Abelas was invited to stay in an official capacity.  He was assigned quarters, and Niyera took him on a tour throughout the keep to introduce him to the quartermaster, smiths and armorers, guards and healers.  

 

It had taken a while for the elf to settle in, though it wasn’t because of any outward indications.  Abelas carried himself always with poise and restraint, the strictest mask she’d ever seen worn outside of an Orleasian ball.  It was only in small moments when she caught him when he thought he was alone or unwatched that she could see his unease.  And, even then, it wasn’t so much a lack of comfort with his surroundings in particular, but perhaps a general unfamiliarity with being back in the world at all.  By his own admission, he and his Sentinels had slept for ages, and she could only imagine what it would be like to be thrown back into the middle of  _ life _ unexpectedly.  Especially life outside of the temple where he’d spent the majority of his life.  

 

So, she tried to make it a little easier for him.  She might happen to turn up during meals to eat with him and keep him company or ask his advice on whatever she might be working on at the time.  She talked him into training her in swordplay, and this he seemed to take a considerable interest in.  Perhaps it was because it was something familiar, like the training of a new Sentinel, as well as being something that engaged both his mind and his body.  But, for the most part, he remained largely quiet and reserved, never divulging too much or getting too friendly, despite being courteous, if a little curt.  However, he was always especially mindful of the staff, and always treated them with the utmost respect.

 

After several weeks, she had noticed that Abelas seemed to leave small sketches in his wake.  Wherever he might sit for any amount of time, alone and thinking, there usually remained a small piece of parchment when he left.  Sometimes it was a scrap, sometimes the back of a missive.  They were like little windows of how the ancient elf viewed the world and recalled the past.  Some were architectural details of a clearly elven style, but in buildings and locales she’d never seen.  Some were portraits, both of people she recognized and those she didn’t.  Some were doodles, practice patches of thatched shading or textures.  So, she thought it only natural to procure a sketchbook for him while on a brief trip to Val Royeaux, along with a set of charcoals.  She had left the little bundle on his bed while he was in the courtyard aiding with the instruction of newly recruited bowmen, then went about her day without giving it much more thought.

 

At the end of the evening, however, after meetings were finished, dinner taken, and she had retired to her quarters, there came an unexpected knock at her door.  When she opened it, Abelas stood before her, the small bundle she’d left for him clutched in his hands.  He was dressed down for the evening, armor retired for the day to leave him standing before her in a simple tunic and breeches.  “Abelas, I-,” she started, surprised to see him, but not unpleasantly so, before he cut her off as he offered the sketchbook and charcoals back out to her.  “I cannot accept this,” he said brusquely.  Her brows knitted together as she glanced down at the bundle then back up to his face.  “Why not?  You seem to enjoy sketching, and I just thou-,” she said, but was interrupted again as he extended his arms a little further out insistently.  “Because I do not...have  _ things _ ,” he said, a little haltingly as if he was explaining something that should be known.  

 

When she only looked on in confusion, he drew his arms back, took a breath, and draped the shroud of calm back over his features.  “Possessions are distraction, and I cannot be distracted from my duty.  It is unacceptable,” he explained stiffly as if reciting.  She gave him a small smile, but it was tinged with a touch of sadness.  “You are no longer bound to such duty, Abelas.  You are allowed,” she drew off, pushing the bundle back until it was pressed against his chest.  There was a ripple of something in his golden eyes that plucked at her heart as he unwaveringly stared at her.  The corners of his mouth tightened just slightly, and he nodded just once at her.  “Very well.   _ Enaste _ ,” he said, with less tension in his voice than before.  She offered him a smile and said, “ _ Ma neral, Abelas _ ,” before he nodded again and retreated from her doorway.

 

* * *

 

She had barely closed the door to the undercroft when she heard a chorus of voices drift in from the courtyard.  The hall’s doors stood open, and a few people lingered on the upper stairs, gazing down at the courtyard.  She approached from behind, laid a hand on the shoulder of the nearest person, “What is going on?”  The man under her hand began to speak, but with a glance over his shoulder to her, quickly averted his eyes and bowed.  “Inquisitor.  The Commander and the Sentinel are going to spar.”  Her brows shot up sharply, and she muttered a quiet  _ Excuse me _ as she began to push through the people to make her way down the steps.  When she arrived at the edge of the sparring ring, Dorian and Cassandra were standing close by, while Bull and a few others were on the opposite side of the ring.  “Inquisitor,” Dorian said in greeting, quickly following up with a cheerful, “Glorious day, isn’t it?”  It was no coincidence that the Tevinter happened to be watching Cullen shed his mantle and cloak before stretching his arms to settle the fit of his armor.  At that point, she realized it would be useless to ask Dorian, so she inclined her head to Cassandra.  “What’s going on here?  Was someone’s honor impugned?”  The Seeker made a noise that was only slightly less disgusted than usual and spoke without returning Niyera’s gaze.  “I don’t think so.  I think we just have a pair of lions fighting over the pride.”  The Inquisitor leaned her elbows against the wooden railing of the ring, offered a quiet  _ ah _ , then proceeded to become a spectator like everyone else.  

 

Abelas was in his armor, but no cloak, and his long braid fell unfettered down his back.  Cullen stood across the ring, also in his armor, with a shield braced on one arm and a sword in the other hand.  “Blades, then?” the Commander called across to Abelas, who turned to the page who offered a silverite broadsword out to him.  The elf took the blade in hand, turned it one way, then the other, testing its balance, before glancing over at his opponent.  “I am used to wielding something considerably  _ longer _ , but if this is what you are accustomed to handling, I will abide,” the elf said without even the slightest hint of mirth, though the crowd behind him offered up a mixture of laughter, jeers, and cheers.  Even Dorian uttered an appreciative  _ Maker _ that was almost lost beneath the noise of the spectators.  She thought she detected a hint of blush in the Commander’s cheeks that hadn’t been there a moment before, and she couldn’t help but smile as she looked back to Abelas, who remained as stoic as ever.  He caught her eye, giving only the slightest inclination of his head, before he paced to the center of the ring.  Cullen eyed the elf as he joined him at the heart of the ring, asking, “Where’s your shield?  Someone get him a shield!”  Abelas raised a hand to halt the page, then shook his head at the Commander.  “I have been offered one, but I have no need.”  The former templar turned his gaze over to Cassandra, who only offered a shrug.  “Very well,” Cullen relented, tapping the flat of his blade against his breastplate in salute, and Abelas did the same.  

 

The dance began as a slow circling, each of the men graceful in their own way.  Cullen was a mix of carefully orchestrated steps, routine and discipline hardened over time until it was no longer a thought, but rather a series of coordinated movements that had become natural.  Abelas, on the other hand, was less tense and less formal, and his steps were more like a dancer’s.  His footwork had the look of a complicated Orleasian dance, but he executed it with exceptional ease.  The air in the courtyard had grown tense, the crowd calming to a low hum of whispers with the occasional yelp of a prompt to action.  Niyera found herself leaning heavily against the railing in anticipation.  Cullen was the first to strike, a shallow stroke that Abelas batted away with little more than a glancing brush of swords.  A few more steps around the ring, and the elf made his move, an upward swipe that Cullen barely deflected with his shield.  Then, the match had really begun.  Their swords were a constant ring of metal on metal as they pressed each other back and forth across the ring.  Abelas was a blur of copper and gold, and his lack of need for a shield was evidenced in his ability to dodge.  Cullen, on the other hand, drove the elf back and forth with authority, an assuredness born out of years of practice.  The crowd cheered and gasped in accordance with the match’s highs and lows, near misses and skillful parries holding everyone in rapt attention.  Off-handedly, without ever looking away from the men, Dorian said, “Thirty gold pieces on the Commander.”  With a lack of hesitation that surprised her, she answered with, “I’ll take that wager.”  Neither of them noticed the glance Cassandra cut between them.

 

The sun overhead beat down on the men, and both had broken out with a sheen of sweat with their exertions.  With a series of swift strikes from his sword, Cullen pushed Abelas to the edge of the ring, where here reversed to catch the off-balance elf with a slam of his shield that drove him to one knee.  The crowd around them rose up in cheer, and Dorian had a disgustingly smug look on his face as the Commander drove an overhead swing down at Abelas to finish the match.  Instead of defeat, Cullen found only disappointment as the elf braced an arm against the blow, and the sword met his gauntlet with a resounding clang of metal that sent sparks into the air.  Energy rippled along the coppery metal of the armor and forced back the blow, which set Cullen off-center.  In response, Abelas rose, body angled to sweep beneath the Commander’s arm and around, catching Cullen’s shins with his heel to knock him from his feet.  As the man fell, the elf snatched the shield from his grip and came fully to his feet in time to watch the Commander hit the ground on his back with a solid thud.  Cullen’s sword was knocked from his hand, and Abelas was left standing above with his own sword and now with the Commander’s shield.  There were a few whoops of cheering and a lot of clapping, though some of it more earnest than the rest.  Abelas propped the Commander’s shield against the rail before he offered down a hand to the man.  Cullen took it without hesitation and clapped the elf good-naturedly on the shoulder when he was on his feet.

  
Wordlessly, Niyera held out an open hand to Dorian, and the Tevinter dropped a small velvet pouch into her palm.  “Don’t be smug, Inquisitor,” he chided, and she smiled as she hefted the small bag.  “But, I didn’t say anything!” she protested.  Dorian cut his eyes at her, smirking, as he said, “Yes, but you were  _ thinking _ it, and I could just  _ feel _ it.” 


	2. Chapter 2

In the darkness, the crystal thrummed insistently until a hand retrieved it.  A voice made alien by the magic whispered, “Both attempts failed?”  The answering voice, deeper in pitch, said, “Yes.  She cannot be touched for the moment.  Another attack so soon would be expected.”  The crystal issued a dissonant hum before the first voice responded, “True.  We will have to wait for an opportunity to present itself.”

 

* * *

 

When she fell, she hit the ground  _ hard _ on her backside, and the jolt vibrated from her tailbone all the way up her spine.  She grunted, winced, and turned a frustrated glare up at Abelas.  He only motioned at her with his sword, two upward ticks, before he said, “Again.”  Instead, she leaned back on her hands and made an exasperated noise, tilting her eyes up to the sky.  “The sun is setting, and we’ve been at this all day.  I think I’ve had enough,” she said, tired and sore and perhaps a bit cranky.  “We are not finished yet,” he stated firmly as he walked over and offered a hand down.  She considered the hand for a moment, then shook her head and took it, allowing him to help her back to her feet.  As he returned to his side of the ring, he spoke with an unmistakable air of command, “The soldier does not get to decide when the battle is over.  It ends when he is dead or the day is won or lost.  Not before.”  

 

When he turned to face her, she was still roughing the dust off the back of her pants, and once done, only then did she retrieve the hilt of her sword.  Snapping her arm out to the side, tendrils of energy ran from her shoulder to the hilt, seeping into the metal and building outward into a blade made of her will alone.  “Yes, but this isn’t a battle.  This is practice,” she reminded him, though he seemed to utterly ignore the protest as he swung his own arcane sword upward in front of his face in a ready salute.  With a roll of her shoulders, she bobbed back and forth on her feet before she steadied her stance and returned the salute.

 

There was an electric thrumming in the air as the pair pushed each other back and forth within the ring, their swords clashing with hisses of energy that shed sparks into the dusky light of evening.  She managed to get in a few good strikes, forcing the Sentinel off-balance, though he recovered with an ease and grace that she desperately envied.  While at the beginning of the match, she had been on the defensive, trying mostly to parry and dodge his attacks, she grew bolder as they fought onward.  No longer was she simply batting away his sword, but rather pushing him back with aggressive strikes that set him on the defensive instead.  She wasn’t the only one sweating with the exertion now, and that knowledge sent a tiny thrill through her body.  With a barrage of relentless maneuvers, she had her partner penned at the railing, and their swords met between them with a violent crackling of energy.  The contrasting hues of the blades made severe lines of his features, cutting shadows across the curves of his cheeks and brow.  Vaguely, this moment reminded her of another long ago -- the glow of red lyrium had made a mockery of the templar’s once normal features, creating a monstrous collection of misshapen forms -- and her resolve faltered but for a moment, but that single hesitation allowed Abelas to regain the upper hand.  

 

A twist of his wrist locked the guard of his sword in hers, wrenching it from her grip as he angled a leg behind hers to sweep her legs from under her.  When she fell, he set upon her, straddling her hips as he held her down by her shoulder and drew the already retreating blade of his sword beneath her chin.  Her breath left her in deep puffs, and she felt the magic of the blade tickle her skin as it snapped back into his hilt.  Tossing piece of metal aside, he pressed down on her other shoulder, effectively pinning her to the ground.  “What went wrong?” he asked between his own quickened breaths.  Gripping one of his wrists, she gazed up at him unerringly.  “I became distracted,” she confessed, casting her eyes to the side.  “By what?” he pressed her as he leaned into his hands.  She grunted at the weight on her shoulders and struggled up, managing only to bring her face closer to his as her eyes flashed.  “Why does it matter?  The result is the same,” she said with a hard edge in her voice before dropping her head back to the ground.  “It matters.  If you know what it is, we can work to correct it.  A real enemy will not be so forgiving,” he said sternly as he awaited a satisfactory answer.  

  
  
  


Instead, she shifted her legs beneath him until she was able to hook her leg over the back of one of his, and with the hand on his wrist, she wrench his arm at the same time she drove the heel of her free hand into his elbow.  The impact caused the joint to collapse and bend, severely shifting his balance to one side.  She took advantage of the opportunity and gripped  his shoulder and pushed, forcing him over and onto his back.  Perched atop him, she glowered down into his somewhat stunned face as she pinned his shoulders, all but spitting, “I know all about the  _ forgiveness _ of a real enemy, and I do not require a lecture from  _ you _ on the subject.”  Her fingers were digging into the thin padding of his training gambeson, pinching his skin hard enough to bruise.  

 

He didn’t flinch under the pain or struggle in her grasp, only let his golden eyes range over hers.  “I did not teach you that,” was what he said when he finally spoke, quietly and without much inflection.  “No, you didn’t.  Cassandra did,” she replied, the steel in her voice softening somewhat.  He only nodded before saying, “I yield,  _ lethallan _ .  It seems you have won the day.”  She didn’t relent immediately, but considered him for a moment more instead, fingers flexing in the padding over his shoulders.  Then, she took a hitching breath as she released him and sat back on her heels.  “ _ ‘Ma serannas, Ena'sal'in'amelan _ ,” she offered with a sort of weary sincerity as she tapped her fist to her chest in salute.

 

* * *

  
  


In the following days, she avoided him, conveniently busy with meetings and paperwork she was usually content to postpone long enough for a sparring match or a conversation over a meal.  He didn’t force the issue and occupied himself with other activities.  He would catch glimpses of her passing through the courtyard as he helped Dennet brush down the horses or would glance up from a conversation with Varric to see her as she exited the war room corridor and disappeared straight away behind the door to her quarters.  Though she walked with her head high, there was a sort of distance in her eyes that suggested her polite smiles and brief interactions were more muscle memory in action than genuine attention.  --  One evening, he found himself swayed by Josephine into spectating a game of Wicked Grace in the tavern.   _ We will teach you to play _ , she’d promised, and the glint in her eye somehow told him she would be the most dangerous one at the table.  Watching them all play, he saw that he’d been right.  Despite himself, his inward amusement at the spectacle was betrayed by his lips, which from time to time broke into a smile.  It didn’t go unnoticed by Varric, who seemed to see everything, and he endured the dwarf’s teasing as graciously as possible.  However, the sound of feet on the stairs, the creaking of wood, and the click of boot heels called his attention away from the game, and he shifted his eyes up to find Niyera.  She stepped off the stairs without sparing a glance to either side as she strode out of the door.

 

He excused himself from the table despite numerous entreaties to stay, promising to return another time, before he made his way out and into the night.  Scanning the courtyard, he spied the shifting of a shadow and followed it.  Up the stairs and onto the ramparts, where a pair of torches lit the tower entrances at each end, but the middle was left to languish in darkness.  That was where he found her, hands braced against the stone as she stared out over the mountains.  Her hair was undone, falling past her shoulders in loose waves that were silvered by the moonlight, and her form was encased in supple leather that embraced every curve.  A shallow inclination of her head told him she was aware of his presence as he came to stand on the other side of the walkway from her, reclining back against the stone.  “Are you ready to tell me?” he inquired, with nothing in his voice aside from the neutrality she’d come to know him for.  “Tell you what?” she returned without looking back, only lifting her head to inspect the dark line of the horizon again.  

 

His boots scuffed a whisper on the stone as he leaned away from the wall and approached her, “Do not feign ignorance.  It does not suit you.”  Silence was her only answer, so he closed the distance between them and slid a hand from her shoulder to elbow, where he urged her to turn with light pressure.  “What are you afraid of,  _ lethallan _ ?”  She allowed the touch to turn her, but her eyes failed to meet his.  The relentless memories replayed on the backs of her lids every time she closed her eyes, the pace quickened and slowed by the rise and fall of the Well’s ever-present voices.  It was only his touch, the tip of his thumb beneath her chin, that drew her face upward, and she finally settled her gaze on his.  “Tell me,” was his gentle command, and she responded by shaking her head.  “It’s too much.  It was a long time ago, and it’s still...it still feels raw,” she gave him the truth, but it felt like weakness.  “I-,” she paused, swallowing past the knot at the base of her throat and pinching the inside of her cheek between her teeth until she tasted blood.  A cold calm slithered across her shoulders, and she shivered as some of the tension was lulled by the pain.  

 

“They won’t die, the memories...and they don’t heal.  And, I...I just can’t,” she struggled to get the words out, and her hands flexed into and out of fists.  “Memories never die,  _ lethallan _ , but they can be sated so they remain where they belong.  In the past.”  She felt the sting of tears rising in her eyes, but she clamped her jaw tight against them as her arms hung limply at her sides.  “If you will allow, I can help you, teach you,” he said, wrapping his hands around hers to stop the relentless clenching.  Her response was to lean into him, her head bowed to rest her forehead on his chest.  “Please,” she whispered as her fingers unclenched to thread into his.  There was desperation in her grip, in her weight against him, and the tremble of her breathing vibrated through the center of his chest.  “We can begin tomorrow,” he assured her, resting his chin briefly atop her head.  “What if I can’t?  The voices...they make it so hard to focus.  I...think I’m losing my own voice in the Well’s,” she admitted hesitantly, as if saying the words aloud somehow made the possibility more real.  One hand released hers and slid along her jawline, holding her gently as he set his mouth near her ear.  

 

Elvhen in the low, rolling purr of his voice caressed her ear, but the way the words flowed from his lips wove them into satin.  She was able to pick out threads, but the rest washed over her and through her, and she felt the rise of the Well’s presence in the back of her mind.  A shiver trailed over her scalp like the rake of nails, and she closed her eyes against the sensation.  Gradually, his words sank beneath her skin like a balm to a burn, and the voices of the Well coiled in on themselves and retreated to her subconscious.  The tension in her core unwound, and she exhaled her relief into the linen of his tunic.  Eventually, he leaned back with the same unreadable expression as always on his features.  “We will see to that as well,” he said as he took a step back, and her hand reluctantly let him go.  She only nodded, eyes riveted to him as he returned the gesture then walked away.  Left standing alone on the ramparts, she didn’t bother to try to hide the tremor that snaked through her body and set her skin to tingling.  She told herself it was just sudden departure of the extra voices in her head, whatever magic Abelas had whispered into her ear to make them stop, because that’s what she needed it to be.  She couldn’t contemplate anything else.

 

* * *

 

Working with Abelas to tame the memories that haunted her wasn't exactly what she had expected.  She had envisioned exercises in mindfulness, and those eventually came, but the lessons began by confronting the memories.   _ You cannot work through what you cannot accept _ , he had told her, and of course, he was right.  But, there was so much tied up in that memory -- Solas, her own stupidity and grief, Cullen.  It was one heartache stacked on another until the tower was so high that she wanted to jump simply because it was the quickest way back to the ground.  It was easier to take that pain and redirect it -- it made a functional person of her again when there was something to channel it into, and when there wasn’t, it all fell apart.  Before she had realized, the conversation about the memories had turned to discussions of the present.  It was impossible to separate the two because of Solas.  Abelas was unexpectedly understanding.  She talked, and Abelas listened.   When she got angry, he took her into the sparring ring and gave her an outlet for it.  When she cried, he held her without judgment.  He became her stoic confidant, a teacher with hard lessons that weren’t pleasant but necessary, and in the end left her better for his guidance.  He became her friend, and she could count on his honest appraisal regardless of her opinions -- not cruel, but frank -- and his tender care when she needed it.

 

It was only after this that the rest came:  the mindfulness exercises, the breathing, the focusing techniques.  For hours they would sit, cross-legged and knee to knee, simply being, breathing.  She would be lost so deep in thought that when she felt Abelas’s hands, one pressing in her stomach, the other straightening her back to correct her posture, she would flinch with a start.  She didn’t know why, but it always made something light in his eyes and one corner of his mouth hitch a little higher.  She only ever smiled sheepishly in response, regardless of how many times it happened.   _ You cannot be emotionless.  You do not want to be emotionless _ , he had said.   _ You must learn how to let them wash over you and fill you, but not control you. _  After weeks of diligent practice and guidance, she was learning to use her emotions to feed her power, her magic.  It was all about control.  He even taught her how to tame the Well’s voices into something manageable, something she could trust the feel of even if she didn’t understand the words.  It was refreshing to feel as if she finally had command of herself again, refreshing and relieving.  She was touched by how much he gave:  first his friendship, then helping her reclaim herself.  There would never be sufficient thanks to give him for either.

 

* * *

 

She retrieved another letter from the stack on her desk, but, unlike the others, this one gave her pause.  The round of crimson wax sealing the parchment was embossed with the unmistakable seal of the Champion of Kirkwall.  Without hesitation, she broke the seal and began to read.   Hawke reported that the Grey Wardens had made it to Weisshaupt without incident, but that problems began soon after the fall of Corypheus.  Wardens began to go missing.  Men and women on the fringe, those that took their patrols alone, those that had been less than thrilled with the Inquisitor’s decision on their exile.  They began disappearing one at a time, then maybe two.  All told, nearly a quarter of their ranks were missing.  Hawke had sent out search parties, but some hadn't returned, and the ones that did reported possible red templar activity in the Western Approach near Coracavus.  Niyera leaned back in her chair.  Coracavus had long been abandoned by Corypheus’s forces, with the darkspawn breech forcing them out.   Of course that was sealed now, thanks to the Inquisition, but why would they return to a former known location?  With a sigh, she deposited the missive on her desk and massaged her fingers into her brow.   She would have to bring this up with the advisors in the morning as no doubt this was going to require investigation.

 

First thing in the morning, she called a meeting in the war room and slid the letter across the table to her advisors.  “I received this yesterday,” she offered, pausing for them to read the missive.  Her arms were crossed, and she paced slowly back and forth along the back of the room.  The noise Cullen made drew her attention, and she found him with both hands braced on the table as he stared down at the parchment.  “How are there still enough red templars left to  _ even _ be a threat anymore?  Who are they following?  And, with Corypheus dead, why would they need Grey Wardens?”  Leliana leaned her hip against the table and folded her arms, uttering, “All very good questions, Commander.  My network has suggested that there is still a templar presence, but that their numbers are greatly hobbled.  Surely not enough to mount any significant offensive.”  Niyera was still pacing when she suggested, “Perhaps they’re trying to create another Corypheus.”  Three pairs of eyes locked on her in unison, and she stood still before them.  “It’s not that far fetched, is it?  They’re unlikely to readily have ancient magisters that have seen the Black City just laying around, but it doesn’t mean they won’t try to recreate the creature just on theory alone.”  Cullen straightened and pushed out a heavy sigh as he rubbed at the back of his neck.  “Corypheus did use Wardens exclusively for his regenerations.  It would make sense for copycats to do the same.”  Josephine passed her eyes across the map, gesturing with her quill, “Who would be interested in duplicating such a thing?  Tevinter?”  The Inquisitor nodded and tugged a hand through her hair, “Who else but the Imperium?  I can ask Dorian to put out some feelers and see what he is able to come up with.”  

 

“We can’t afford to wait to see if that bears fruit.  If we allow this to fester, their numbers could grow,” Cullen said as he straightened, propping both hands on his hips as his features hardened.  “I’ll take a party down there to scout it and see what the situation looks like,” Niyera said as she nodded.  “I’m going with you,” the Commander informed her, and her brows lifted in response.  “I hardly think that’s necessary.  Dorian, Bull, and I should be perfectly capable of-,” and Cullen cut her off with a wave of his hand.  “I am  _ going _ with you.  Besides, I also think we should dispatch a group to Weisshaupt to shore up security there.  Bull and Thom would be ideal for the mission.”  Her lips pursed as she cast a dubious glance to Leliana, who raised a noncommittal shoulder, “It  _ would _ be wise to root out whether there was some vulnerability in the fortress or if the disappearances are defections.  I can, of course, send my scouts or go myself, but Bull would be the best alternative to any of those options.”  Niyera rolled her head, shifting her shoulders to the greeting of several snaps and pops.  “Very well.  If you’re all in agreement, then send Bull and Thom.  I need you here, Leliana, to keep things in hand.  We’ll set out in the morning.”  Nods were passed around the table, and they all filed out.

 

A couple hours after sunset, Niyera found herself in the undercroft, rummaging through the storage for extra supplies for the trip.   Runes, a couple of sigils, perhaps an amulet or two.   She balanced her already-weighty pack on her thigh as she tucked the bits and pieces into the side pockets and pouches.  She passed only the briefest glance over her shoulder when she heard the door behind her open, then went back to her task.  “Abelas, what brings you down here at this time of night?”  He hadn’t said anything yet, but she could feel his presence at her back.  It was more than his warmth, but a sort of energy that was distinctly his and that he radiated without thought.  “I have heard that you’re traveling to the Western Approach tomorrow,” he said simply, evenly.  She nodded as she tugged the toggle up the drawstring on her bag to secure it closed, then turned to answer, “Yes, there’s been a bit of disturbance with the Grey Wardens and suspicions of renewed red templar activity.  It has to be investigated.”  She shrugged the bag onto her shoulder as she faced Abelas, but he made no move to unblock her path.  

 

“I am going with you,” he stated, and she followed it with a firm shake of her head.  “No, we don’t expect it to be an overly dangerous mission,” she assured him, and when he frowned, she added, “and, I need you here.  With Cullen coming with us and Bull and Thom leaving for Weisshaupt, it leaves Cassandra alone here with command.  I want her to have backup in the event that something would happen while we are gone, and  _ you _ have the experience for that.”  His cheeks hollowed slightly as he folded his arms, and she could see his jaw working as he ground his teeth.  “I will do as you say, but I am not comfortable with the situation.  I would rather see to your safety personally,” he said flatly, and she raised a hand to pat his cheek gently.  “Duly noted, Sentinel,” she said, lifting onto her toes to place a kiss on the opposite cheek before scooting around him.  She hadn’t reached the door before he snagged her arm and tugged her back.  “Humor me in one thing?” he asked.  A quirk of her brow greeted Abelas when she turned to face him, and he reached into his jerkin and pulled out a small green crystal.  “Take this with you.  If you have need of me, crush it, and I will know,” and without waiting for her answer, he pressed it into her palm and closed her fingers around it.  The small bit of crystal gave off a subtle chill and shivered when she brushed her thumb across it.  “Very well, I will take it,” she said, offering him an indulgent smile, “Thank you.”  He nodded and reluctantly released her arm, cautioning, “Keep it close,” as she departed.

 

Before dawn had broken, she was up and on her way down to the armory for her armor.  Tucked inside an inner pocket of her doublet was Abelas’s crystal, its occasional trembling reminding her of its presence.  In contrast, she had been unaware of the Sentinel’s attendance that morning as he stood atop the ramparts, arms folded stiffly as he watched her go.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence begins here, folks. Be warned.

They stood at the base of the long, angular stair that led to Coracavus’s entrance, and Niyera raised a hand to shield her eyes against the glare of the sun.  “Have I ever mentioned that I despise the Western Approach?” she asked as she glanced back at Dorian and Cullen.  The Tevinter scoffed and stabbed the butt of his staff into the sand, “I suppose you’d prefer the humid, cold damp of Ferelden, where everything is soggy and smells of wet dog.”  The comment caught a sharp glance from Cullen, but the Inquisitor simply shrugged, “I do dislike sweating while I’m standing still.  It somehow doesn’t seem right.”  Always the voice of reason and an overabundance of seriousness, the Commander started up the stairs, “Complaining about it isn’t going to change it.”  Niyera and Dorian shared a glance before they both shot peevish looks at Cullen’s back, then started up behind him.

 

Throughout the whole of the trip thus far, they’d encountered nothing outside of a couple of groups of bandits, which were quickly dispatched.  They’d also stumbled across a few hunters in the area, and perhaps more than anyone, they would know if there had been more activity than usual on the sands.  However, they reportedly had seen no red templars at all and had only encountered one group which they had deemed out of the ordinary; they had claimed to be merchants in search of fulgurite.  Some new Orleasian trend or something.  The men themselves were well-dressed enough to make the story believable, but the hunters had found their manner a bit off as well as the fact that they were especially well-armed.  But, the men posed no threat to them, so they employed a philosophy rare to hunters:  live and let live.  That was the only hint of any even remotely suspicious activity in the area.  Even so, as Cullen mounted the top of the stair, he drew his sword, and Niyera threw up a barrier around the trio.

 

Coracavus was essentially the same as last she saw it; perhaps the sand drifts were higher, but little else had changed.  With the way the winds blew in the Approach, footprints would last but a few moments before being swept away.  Cullen was at the head of the group, while she and Dorian fanned out to either side, and the only sound to reach her ears was the gentle shifting of the sand beneath their feet.  Beyond seeing nothing and hearing nothing, she also felt nothing -- no wards, no runes, no glyphs, or barriers.  It was all just empty.  With the main chamber found abandoned, they split up to check the few cells directly branching off from it.  The door of the cell she faced clung to its frame by a pair of rusted hinges, with the bottom half bent upward in an odd fashion.  She carefully picked her way over the door, and it groaned and creaked under her weight before she hopped into the sand on the other side.  The ruined remains of a cot sat, nearly petrified by the heat, along with a nest of sun-rotted blankets.   There was nothing to see here.  At her back, she heard what sounded like the scrape of metal on metal, and she said, “There's nothing here, Cullen.”  

 

She continued to speak as she turned, “We should check the cells on the lower level all the same,” but the face she found looking back at her was not Cullen.  A wan red glow fell over the man’s features, and they reacted at the same time:  her to cast, him to dampen her magic.  She was the faster draw, and the raw wave of force that rolled off her sent the templar crashing backward through the arch, and he took the door with him.  Through the thick stone walls, she heard the clash of sword on sword, as well as the roar of fire.  She exited the cell at a trot, plunging a spear of lightning into the prone templar’s chest as she passed.  Dorian and Cullen stood on opposite ends of the small footbridge that lead over the lower levels.  The Tevinter had erected a barrier of flame between himself and four advancing templars, and Cullen was actively fighting off three on his own.  

 

She didn't have time:  no time to wonder where the templars had come from, how they'd evaded detection, why they were even here.  Summoning up the reserves of her power and drawing from the Well, she drove a hand skyward with a clenching fist, forcing a cage of static around the men closing in on Dorian, while the other hand threw out a forked lance of lightning that arced through Cullen’s attackers.  In the interim, skeletons began to claw their way from beneath the sand in answer to Dorian’s call, and she broke to Cullen’s side.   From atop one of the mezzanines, she heard a voice shout, “Take the warrior!”  A command in the same voice opened a portal, and ten templars poured from within.  Craning her head up, she spied a darkly clad figure with copper-red hair, his hands ceaselessly weaving spells, a vile conductor at the head of a bloody symphony.  Several dead templars littered the ground at Cullen’s feet, but the reinforcements overwhelmed him before she could reach him.  She growled beneath her breath as she gnarled both hands on the air to manifest ropes of electricity, and she whipped them at the rear of the pack piled on top of Cullen, sending a couple flying backward from the heap.  She spared a brief glance to Dorian and found him holding his own between his flames and the undead.  

 

Distantly, she could hear Cullen’s shouts as he was being dragged away, and one by one, the remaining templars turned on her.  From overhead, she heard the red-haired man’s voice shout, “Don't forget!  I need her alive and  _ mostly _ undamaged.”  She swore under her breath, counting the advancing templars at five to her one.  Not the worst odds, but not the best, either.  But, she  _ was _ out numbered, and funneling their numbers would help, so she drew them back into the narrower hall she’d earlier emerged from.  The hiss of flames still sang in her ears along with Dorian’s voice, and she could no longer hear Cullen at all.  Though she was out of range of their dampening ability herself, every spell she threw at them was purged before it could do significant harm, and she was expending her energy as fast as they could absorb it.   _ There must be another way _ , she thought as she quickly turned her eyes around and upward for inspiration.  When she found it, there was no hesitation, and a hand shot out to cast an arc of lightning at the rising outer corner of the cell.  Stone and mortar cracked and filled the air with dust as massive shards of the wall broke apart and flew outward at the templars.  Only a couple managed to duck behind their shields in time, and the others were pitched off their feet.  She gave the opposite wall the same treatment, and the shattered clumps of stone created a barrage the men couldn’t dodge or barricade themselves from.  They fell.  Relief began to wash through her when she felt the creep of magic along her skin, lifting the hairs on the back of her neck.  She never got a chance to turn; a portal opened at her back, and a pair of templars stepped forth.  The dampening wave they sent out was sudden and harsh, and the sensation of the hollowing of her core wrangled a hoarse cry from her throat as she sank to her knees.  

 

For the barest of moments when Dorian searched for her cry, they locked eyes.  She saw his fear:  not fear for himself, but fear for her, and then he was lost behind the inferno that erupted around him.  Heavy hands pawed at her arms, dragging her to her feet, and she fought with everything she had.  Elbows thrown backward caught only armor, so she kicked out instead, trying to use the force of her weight to pry her arms from the templars’ grips.  It was only when they slammed her, face first, into the wall that she stopped fighting, and the world around her went dim.

 

* * *

 

She woke to the stench of decay made acrid by thick, pitch-laden smoke.  It was strong enough to make her eyes water and the back of her throat sting.  Trying to swallow down the taste of it is what alerted her to the weight that bound her throat.  A tentative reach for her magic found only an empty chasm, and her fear echoed in the desolation.  A violent squall abruptly split the air, and she struggled to open her leaden eyelids, managing only to flutter them for a moment before they finally peeled back.  She found the red-haired man dragging a heavy wooden chair across the rough stone floor, and when it was positioned directly in front of her, he stopped and turned.  Finding her eyes open, he smiled, and had it not been backed by the coldness of his eyes, it might have been a pleasant expression.  “Ah.  Welcome back.  I hope the nap was restful,” the man blithely offered as he sat and crossed his legs, ankle to knee.  A few more blinks helped to focus her sight as her eyes fixed on the man, and he seemed only to patiently await her full attention.  “There wasn’t really an opportunity to introduce myself earlier, so allow me to do so now.  I am Eoin,” he said with a slight inclination of his head in lieu of a bow.  

 

Opening her mouth to speak, she found her voice weak, and it cracked before she produced much sound.  Eoin purposefully ignored the effort and continued on in his pleasant conversational tone, “Do you know why you’re here, Inquisitor?”  Roughly, she cleared her throat and still only managed a hoarse whisper when she asked, “W-where are the others?”  The man cocked an elbow over the corner of the chair’s back and gestured first to a door at one end of the room, “Well, your commander is being held in a cell through there,” and then another door at the opposite end, “And your fellow mage is visiting with my templars just beyond that door.  Well, I assume he’s still with them.  It  _ has _ been quite a while since I heard him scream.”  He leaned forward a tad and cupped a hand to the side of his mouth as he said in a hush, “I had to close the door.  They were making such a ruckus in there, I was afraid they’d wake you.  Perhaps I should check on them.”  Her face went cold as she felt the blood rush away, and Eoin stood from the chair to stride easily over to her, leaning in close enough that she could smell the cologne that clung cloyingly to his skin.  “You know how templars are.  The red lyrium rarely changes them in that respect.  They always  _ do _ love to put a rebellious mage through his paces,” he said casually. 

 

The surge of anger that ran through her tested the give in her bindings, and she found both the collar and wrist manacles were held to the wall with short chains.  Not nearly enough length to allow her to put her hands on him.  Standing just out of her reach, he smiled at her again, winked, then walked over to the closed door.  He rapped on the wood, and after a moment, it fell open with a creak.  A man stood in crack, skin sallow and hazed with red, a glow cast by the shards of red lyrium protruding from his pauldrons.  “How is our guest?” Eoin asked, purposefully casting a glance to Niyera.  “Dead, sir.  Bled out.”  The red-haired man looked stricken, head canted to the side with exaggerated concern.  She couldn’t help but struggle against her chains when the words hit her, a fist clenching in her chest hard enough to steal her breath.  It wasn’t true.  If they killed Dorian and Cullen, what sort of leverage would they have to get what they wanted?  “You’re lying,” she hissed from between her clenched teeth.  

 

The templar and Eoin shared a glance, and the templar disappeared as the other man pushed the door fully open.  When the templar reemerged, there was a body hefted over his shoulder.  She thought she might recognize the clothes, but in truth, they were so sodden with blood that they clung to the body like a second skin.  She would have to see his face.  As if he were no more than a sack of flour, the templar hauled the man from his shoulder and sat him down in the chair where Eoin sat only minutes before.  There was scuffing of the chair on the floor as she could only imagine that the templar was trying to arrange the body to sit upright.  When he was satisfied, he stepped behind the chair and tugged the man’s head up by a fistful of his black hair.  What she came face to face with tore a sound from her lips such that she’d never heard and in a voice she didn’t recognize.  Logically, she knew it was her that was screaming, but it somehow still didn’t make sense.  Dorian’s dead eyes stared blankly ahead, frozen open, and his face was battered, lips torn, but it was unquestionably him.  Gone were his harness and armor, and he was left only in the remains of his shirt and trousers, which themselves were ripped and soaked in blood.  She couldn’t breathe.  Her chest ached for the want of breath, and her throat was closed.  She could only gasp with soundless sobs.  

 

It wasn’t until Eoin was actively supporting her weight that she realized she couldn’t breathe because her legs had collapsed, effectively leaving her to hang herself from collar fixed to the wall.  He hitched her up, arms draped over his and her chin set on his shoulder as he pinned her against the wall with his body, forcing her gaze straight ahead.  She felt like her skin was on fire, heat streaked across her cheeks and ears, anger and pure agonized grief coursing through her with every breath.  When Eoin whispered in her ear, his breath was cool, and his tone was soft and even, “I know you’ve seen the way the lyrium consumes their bodies.  Grotesque, really.”  It felt as if her stomach was trying to turn itself inside out, and when his lips brushed the shell of her ear, her body spasmed with the effort not to vomit.  “I don’t know how much thought you’ve given it, but it’s impossible to control the growth pattern of the lyrium.  It can make...intimacy a bit awkward, so the men tend to take  _ full _ advantage of any scraps they’re given.”  The horror of the suggestion tore a strangled cry from her throat, and she couldn’t help but stare at Dorian.  It seemed a disservice to him to look away.  

 

In equal measure, fury and sorrow gripped her, and the longer Eoin held her, the more she began to tremble.  “Oh, dear,” the man simpered, still speaking with his cheek against hers.  “You’re shaking like a leaf.”  With him propping her up, he was well within hand’s reach now, and she fed her fingers into the front of his shirt.  Her voice hitched on the shuddering remains of a sob, but she whispered to him, “I hope you enjoy the taste of your own blood.”  When she felt him try to lean away, her fingers twisted in the fabric until her hands were fists, and she held him tight.  “Because you’re going to die choking on it,” she finished, only allowing her eyes to leave Dorian when Eoin struggled out of her grasp.  The gaze she leveled on him was nothing short of savage.  Tears had cleaned trails through the dirt on her cheeks, with eyes rimmed red and blood dried on her split lips.  He only regarded her silently for a moment, with the same nonplussed countenance he’d held the whole time, before he said, “I understand how difficult this must be.  I’ll give you some time.”  And just so simply, he turned to depart, pausing only to speak to the templar, saying, “Do make sure she doesn’t hang herself.  She’s no good to me dead,” before he strode from the chamber.

 

* * *

Eoin never returned to her cell.  Instead, she was unhitched from the wall and drug into the cell where Cullen was kept.  When the templars pushed her toward her commander, she stumbled and toppled to her knees.  The pain bent her double for a moment, but when she lifted her head, she found herself gazing up into his amber eyes.  Like her, he’d been stripped of his armor and looked a little worse for the wear.  It was obvious he hadn’t gone easily when they look him, and his face showed the evidence of it.  He lurched forward against his chains, though there was only so far he could go, and the red-haired man scolded him with a cluck of his tongue from the back corner of the room.  “We’ve discussed this, Commander.  You’ll only make it more difficult on yourself,” Eoin said as calmly as ever as he moved to stand beside Niyera.  “Perhaps you’ve considered my earlier question, Inquisitor.  Do you know why I’ve brought you here?  And make no mistake, it was  _ I _ that summoned you.”  She craned her neck to cut her gaze up at the man, remaining stubbornly silent despite his questioning.  “You’re not even going to guess?” Eoin asked, then abruptly snatched a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back.  She cried out, and Cullen swore at the man, fighting against his restraints, “You bastard!  Maybe you should come closer and ask me instead.”  The red-haired man only chuckled, maintaining a respectful distance from Cullen as he shook his head, “No, thank you.  I doubt there’s anything in that head of yours, pretty though it may be.  What I am interested in is in this one.”  With those words, he jerked her head back again until she was forced to stare up at him, “I’m waiting, dear.”

 

The corners of her eyes were crinkled with pain, and she fought to find her voice beneath the cruel press of the collar on her throat.  “The Wardens...you’re trying to-,” and her voice choked off, and she coughed on her words.  Eoin loosened his grip just a bit to allow her to speak, “...trying to create another Corypheus.”  The man’s head tilted curiously to one side as he regarded her, then his brow furrowed.  “Why in Thedas would I want to try to duplicate what still exists?” he questioned, seeming to relish the disbelief that spread across her face, which she was unable to hide with his hand forcing her head back.  “He’s destroyed,” she challenged, all but spitting the words, “I opened a rift inside him.  I saw it.”  Eoin made the first indelicate sound she’d heard from him yet and grunted as he shoved her head to the side and moved to face her better.  “You destroyed his body, for certain.  But, there are other bodies.”  Niyera sneered as she brought her face around to glare up at him, “Not in the Fade.  That’s why you needed the Grey Wardens.”  The man folded an arm and propped his other elbow on it, tapping at his chin with a fingertip.  “Well, that’s true enough.  We did  _ try _ to pull his essence back into one of the Wardens we trapped here, but that wasn’t exactly successful.  But, then we realized we didn’t need to bring him out to accomplish that.”  She stared at Eoin as if he were daft, her mind rolling over what he could  _ possibly _ be talking about, and as he expectantly raised his brows, the answer struck her soundly in the middle of her chest.  It must have been obvious in her expression because the man only laughed and twittered as if pleased with himself.  “Ah, there it is.  She’s finally realized.  We didn’t need to bring him out because-,” and he trailed off as Niyera cut him off, “because I left Stroud in the Fade.”

 

Cullen’s expression dropped and his arms hung limp in his chains as she glanced over at him from Eoin.  “Of course, there’s no way you could have known, but I like to think of it as a sort of divine providence,” the red-haired man said, gesturing absently as he paced between she and Cullen.  “And now you understand why we needed you here,” he said, motioning to her as if giving her the floor to speak.  She tried to clear the burn from the back of her throat, then hoarsely said, “You want me...to open a rift so he can come back through.”  She didn’t look at Eoin as she spoke, only at Cullen, as if somehow the visual connection could somehow make this easier.  She couldn’t do what they were asking.  It would mean all the sacrifices of the Inquisition were made in vain, and she couldn’t allow that.  “I won’t do it,” she said quietly, and Cullen gave her the slightest nod of approval.  When Eoin stepped between them, she was forced to look up at the man as he spoke, “Oh, I think you will.  You just need the proper motivation.”  With a gesture, two templars stepped up to stand at her shoulders.  She couldn’t see him, but she could hear the clang of Cullen’s chains, and she simply shook her head at Eoin.  “There’s nothing you can do to me that will change my mind,” she stated clearly, unerringly as she gazed up at him.  He only smiled and said, “I’m aware.  That’s why we’re not doing it to you.”  With those words, the templars stepped past her, and Eoin moved so that she could watch as they forced Cullen back against the wall, one clapping a gauntleted hand beneath his chin to tilt his head up.  Her stomach lurched painfully as Eoin pulled a small red vial from his belt, the glass of the vessel illuminated with a persistent glow.

 

She recognized it all too well, and it didn’t take Cullen long to figure it out, and he began to buck forcefully against the templars.  “No...Get the  _ fuck _ off of me,” Cullen raged until she could see the muscles cord in his neck and the veins on his forehead bulge.  In the same instant, she surged to her feet, “You can’t!”  A pair of hands on her shoulders forced her back to her knees as Eoin uncorked the vial.  “I can, and I will.  He’s a strong one.  It will take longer for the lyrium to destroy him than it does the others, and that’ll make him a fine asset,” the man said as he clamped a hand over Cullen’s chin and dug his fingers into the Commander’s cheeks to force his mouth open.  Panic washed over her in a cold sweat; there was nothing on the face of this world that could be worse for Cullen.  Nothing.  Just the threat of it was driving him wild, wringing tears from him and causing him to fight like a man possessed.  The terror in his eyes was heartbreaking.  The templar at her back could no longer control her simply with his hands on her shoulders, and he caught her in a headlock and forced her to watch.  Eoin strained with the effort to pry Cullen’s jaw open, but once he managed, his arm raised and he began to tip the vial in.  In the templar’s grip, she writhed trying to free herself, but she only succeed in making it harder to breath.  All at once, she found herself screaming past the hold, “Creators!  No, stop!  I’ll do it!”  A drop of the lyrium fell onto the templar’s gauntlet before Eoin withdrew the threat and stood aside.  “There now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asked, and she could hear the gloating in his voice.  “You two feel free to talk amongst yourselves while I go prepare.  It shouldn’t be too long,” he said, motioning to the templars.  The one holding her shoved her forward, and she barely caught herself on her hands as the men withdrew from the cell.  She bowed to the stone, pressing the hot skin of her forehead to the cool floor, and above her, she could still hear Cullen panting.  “You should not have done that.  Not for me,” he finally said, both relief and regret in his voice, and she was still curled on her knees and forearms against the floor when she answered, “I made the only choice I could.”

 

* * *

A rough shove threw her to the floor, knees grating on stone and bound hands struggling to keep her face from suffering the same fate.   When her eyes peeled up, she found the source of the rotten stench that had been in the back of her throat since she awoke:  heaps of bodies discarded to either side of a gore-draped altar.  From the look of the uniforms, they were Grey Wardens, but their faces were so distended and ruined that recognition would be impossible.   The intensity of the smell alone made her stomach lurch, and she expelled little more than bile with a pair of convulsive heaves.  

 

“Tsk.  I do apologize that the accommodations are not up to your standards, Inquisitor,” the man said as he strode past her to stand before the altar.  When her stomach unclenched, the slight lift of her head afforded her a view of the man from beneath her lowered brow.   “You may have noticed that you've been placed within a containment glyph, just as a precaution in the event that you decide to summon something unsavory.  I’d advise against it,” he said as a wave of his hand caused the runes to flare to life.  The smell of it, the feel as it raked over her skin -- it was blood magic.  “I’d also advise against any offensive spells.  They’ll be nullified before they leave the barriers of the glyph.”  As he spoke, Niyera focused on his voice, the cadence of it, the lack of inflection.  He'd told her Dorian had been slaughtered with the same horrifically nonchalant tone as he used now.   Had made a similarly errant wave of his when he indicated the templar should retrieve the Tevinter’s body.  She let it all wash over her, savoring the anger and rage it sparked, allowing it to fill the emptiness her stolen magic had left behind.   The force of it made a hot shiver run across her skin.  

 

To her captor, it must have looked like fear because he coo’d at her and shook his head.   “I could lie to you and tell you this would be over soon, but the truth is, all the trouble you've caused my master deserves an answer of equal measure.  I'm afraid it will not be pleasant nor quick.”  She didn't speak, just took the threats and folded them in with the rest of her fury, allowing the promise of vengeance to consume her.   Behind her, the scrape of metal on stone was followed closely by the furious roar of Cullen’s voice, a string of vile curses she might never have imagined to hear fall from his lips.  Eoin spared a glance at the commander, presently in the grip of two templars already half-lost to the red lyrium, and sighed laboriously.  “Will one of you shut him up?  I find him tedious,” and the man’s request was answered with the collision of heavy armor with flesh, the sound quite distinct, along with several cracks that were undoubtedly bones breaking.  She turned her head as far as she was able in the collar only to catch only a thin glimpse of Cullen.  Bare to the waist, he was supported by the two red templars, and his torso was a collage of bruises and torn skin.  She couldn’t see his face as his head was bowed; she could only see the sweat-curled locks of his golden hair and a thin line of mixed saliva and blood that stretched from beneath his head to the floor.

 

Folding her arms over her stomach, she curled in on herself and turned her eyes back to the stone floor beneath her knees.  She could hear the wet struggle of Cullen’s breathing and that, along with the vision of him, was fed into the well of her fury.  It wasn’t magic, but it sang in her blood as sweetly as lyrium ever had.  When the toes of the Eoin’s boot slid into her view, she tilted her head back, and she brought her gaze to bear on his.  His lips pulled back from his teeth in an uneven smile.  “If looks could kill,” he said, words drawing off into a hum as he traced a fingertip down her cheek.  She gave no outward reaction to the touch, but she could feel her skin crawling in revulsion.  Against the sensation, she steadied her voice before saying, “As much as I appreciate the casual conversation, if I am to do this, let’s get on with it.”  He considered her for a moment then pulled a small key from the pocket of his waistcoat.  “You disappoint me, Inquisitor.  I had hoped you would need more persuasion, but instead, you rush headlong into the abyss.  Pity,” he murmured as he leaned in to unlock her collar and pull it from around her neck.  Slowly, as the effects of the enchantment wore off and the lyrium flared to life in her veins, she felt the crush of her power building in her core like the weight of the air before a violent summer thunderstorm.

 

The sharp edges of the metal left bloodied indentations in her skin, and she awkwardly rubbed at them with her manacled hands.  She pushed herself to her feet with some effort, swaying for a moment before saying, “Pardon me if the process isn’t one I am eager to prolong, especially if I am to be forced to endure your presence.”  A hardness slashed through his eyes, and for a moment, she felt certain he would strike her, but instead, he laughed.  Full and long and loud.  The sound echoed in the oversized chamber, bouncing off the walls and back to her ears.  “You really are a joy.  It really is a shame you can’t be allowed to survive our encounter.”  She ignored his words as she turned to take a last look at Cullen, and she found him staring at her, lips split and bleeding, one eye swollen shut.  With her eyes, she tried to convey how sorry she was, and in return, he croaked out a feeble, “Don’t...not worth,” but even those meager words were cut short by a templar’s gaunleted fist.  

 

The sight of Cullen’s eyes rolling back in his head as he hung limp between his captors made her blood flare and sparks crackle on her fingertips.  “Nuh uh uh,” the man cautioned, waggling a finger at her.  The walls of the containment field flickered a hazy white in response to her magic before fading into invisibility again.  She rolled her shoulders and took a breath, and the energy retreated once more under her skin.  Eoin took a few steps back, making a gracious gesture before folding his arms.  “Whenever you’re ready, Inquisitor.”  Pressing her back against the boundaries of the glyph, she focused on breathing - in and out, slow and measured.  She let the echo of her own voice swirl across her mind, summoning not only her own power and the power of the mark, but the Well’s voices.  All of it coalesced into a force that shimmered just behind the blue-green of her eyes and made them flare with a subtle luminescence.  The timing would need to be perfect.  She would need to ward the rift as she fell through it.  A moment too early, and she would be unable to drag Corypheus back through with her.  A moment too late, and she might bar herself from returning.  No one could follow them, and nothing could be allowed to escape.  It had to be perfect.  

 

She clenched her fist around the mark, feeding it with the power bestowed by the Well, and the resulting surge of energy was remarkable and painful.  It etched her bones beneath her skin, scraped at muscles, and caused her skin to split and bleed.  The severity was unexpected.  The muscles in her arms shivered as she lifted them, still manacled at the wrists, and she braced herself against the pain she knew was coming as she thrust her hands upward and unleashed the mark.  The concussive force of the release rocked Eoin back on his feet, and the pain dropped her to her knees as she fought to control what she’d set free.  The air distorted, sickly green tears opening and roiling, until all the small fissures joined into one gaping maw of a rift.  The power recoiled into her arm, and she hugged it to her chest as she watched shadows shift and move in the Fade beyond.  Blood was seeping through her fingers as she clutched at her forearm, and her captor seemed to take it as an invitation.  His magic teased the blood from her skin, twisting it into a writhing cord that wriggled its way into the rift, no doubt in an effort to lead Corypheus to the opening.  Sure enough, only a handful of moments passed before a humanoid figure came into sight.

 

She recognized its form, but it wasn’t truth.  There was nothing real left of the man she saw.  First one foot, then the other, Stroud stepped out of the rift to stand before her.  The flesh was rent, a huge gash tearing open his side, and along his jaw, the bone was visible where skin and muscle had been stripped away.  Corypheus’s essence had already begun to pervert the Warden’s body, angular protrusions growing from his shoulders and neck, and his eyes pulsed with a muted crimson glow.  “Ah, the mistake proves useful at last,” she heard Corypheus say, the sound of the voice a mixture Stroud’s and the creature’s.  Every muscle in her body tensed, and she struggled back to her feet.  “Collar her again before you release the barrier,” Corypheus ordered, and even as Eoin rushed to do as he was commanded, she launched herself at Stroud’s body.  The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, but she managed to get her manacled arms around his neck.  When Corypheus roared, his fetid breath scorched her cheek, and he struggled to disentangle himself from the chain of her arms.  It was too little, too late; caught off-guard, Stroud’s body was pulled along with her as she threw all of her weight toward the open rift.  The energy of the tear ghosted over her skin as they tumbled through, and she hissed out the chant of a warding spell into the in-between to create a barrier in the rift opening behind her. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More violence.

Echoing footfalls spiraled through the tower, startling the ravens in the rookery, who unleashed a cacophony of angry squawks.  The sound preceded Abelas’s arrival by only a handful of moments, and Leliana could tell instantly that there was something amiss.  “What has happened?” she asked as she crossed around her desk to stand before him.  “The Inquisitor has encountered trouble.  We must send a detachment to the Western Approach immediately,” he forced between his harried breaths.  When he’d felt the recoil of the energy from the crystal he’d given her, he was on the other side of the compound and ran all the way.  “How do you know this?” she asked, ever suspicious, as she folded her arms tightly.  “I sent her with an enchanted crystal.  Breaking it would alert me, and it has been broken,” he explained, and the Spymaster nodded.  “I’ll alert Cassandra, the mages, and Cullen’s recruits.  You round up Varric, Krem, and the rest of the Chargers” she directed as she headed down the stairs, the elf following close behind.  “We need someone to take command,” she said, and Abelas responded, “I can take the lead.”  Leliana spared only the briefest glance over her shoulder before she nodded her consent, “I’ll leave it to you and Cassandra, then.”  As they left the hall, they broke in different directions to organize the force.

* * *

 

 

The moment their bodies left the world and entered the Fade, everything changed.  Gravity was no longer a law, and physics had no meaning.  In a tangle of arms and legs, weightlessness arrested their fall, and he was still roaring in her ear, breath hot and dank on her skin as she struggled to get her arms from around him.  The momentary daze from the impact of her charge was fading quickly, and his enflamed crimson eyes focused on her face.  He caught her forearms in his hands, and she snarled as yanked and pulled on her arms, but his grip was solid.  Instead, she threw her weight into turning their bodies until he was positioned beneath her.  She folded in on herself, bracing her knees against his chest, and when she stopped resisting his pull on her arms, the heft of his efforts slammed her weight down on his throat.  At the same time, she threw a fist of force magic behind it to impel his body straight down.  Their landing was so fraught with momentum that when they hit solid ground, dust lifted into hazy clouds around them, the stone beneath them cracked, and her knees crushed a goodly portion of his rib cage.  

 

The reverberations of the landing shook her from the outside in, and the battering her knees and body took made her groan and collapse inward.  A white hot burning suffused her thigh, and looking down, she found one of the fractured ribs had stabbed through Stroud’s chest and into her thigh.  Beneath her, blood, dark with rot and festering, bubbled from the body’s lips, a sickly wet sound that soon turned into a soul-chilling gurgle of a laugh.  Easing off the bone that pierced her leg, she shakily stood and hobbled back from Corypheus.  She tried to steady herself, but tremors shook her from the inside, making her legs wobble and her hands tremble.  Across from her, Corypheus rose with the loud crunch and grind of broken bones as putrid blood seeped from his mouth and gushed from where his ribs bit through skin and muscle.  A twitch of her fingers summoned a shroud of pale green around her, and the barrier swiftly sank into her skin as she shuffled to the side, mirroring his moves as they circled each other.  “You only delay the inevitable,” he choked out before spitting out a mouthful of black blood.  “Banal nadas,” was her answer, her voice hoarse with dirt and grit making sand paper of her throat.  

 

The laugh that crawled from his throat was wholly inhuman, a composition of discordant vibrations forced over ruined vocal cords.  The sound of it simultaneously made her skin crawl and her blood boil.  “At least the elf taught his whore  _ something _ before he abandoned you,” he taunted, the flare of red that streaked across his eyes manifesting on his fingertips.  Without conscious thought, she raised her hands, and the mark flared to life in one palm, while the other collected violet strands of electricity.  The Warden’s discolored lips pulled back from his smile, teeth smeared with the viscous syrup the Magister had made of his blood, and she couldn’t help but grimace.  She had known Stroud for what seemed like only a handful of moments, but she had judged him a good man that did not deserve a fate such as this.  With no warning, Corypheus thrust his hands toward her, arcs of energy forking out only to be met with that of the mark, the red on green clash causing the air to distort and sizzle.  She sheared a gesture at him with her other hand, unfurling a coil of lightning that whipped across his chest and over his shoulder.  Skin and muscle were flayed, burned away, and the bone beneath was blackened.  The blow set him off balance, and his power veered wildly, crashing into a massive boulder at her shoulder.  She tried to turn out of the blast, but she was a moment too late as the rock exploded outward in a thousand tiny shards that pelted the side of her face.

 

Her scream was ragged and brief as the slivers of stone sliced into her skin, and she felt the warmth of her blood washing down her face.  The burn of it in her eye made her effectively blind on that side, and she fumbled with the effort to meet his renewed assault.  The surge of his power bullied past her off-center shield, though she was able to avoid a center mass hit.  Instead, the crimson arc of energy slammed into her side and pitched her into the air.  She was stopped by the craggy rise of a fractured spike of rock that jutted up from the ground before she limply fell to the dirt.  The taint of the magic skittered through her veins like a myriad tiny spiders, and she couldn’t help the way the sensation tied her body into fitful knots.  Her back bowed, and she cried out, the movement tearing at the fresh rend in her side.  It was only when the dregs of the energy was drained out of her that rigidity in her muscles relaxed, and she slumped against the rock.  By now, Corypheus was truly beginning to suffer the weight of his wounds, his vessel’s blood loss and broken bones turning him into something more like a ragdoll than a man.  He staggered onward, drawing nearer, a sad marionette on cut strings compelled by pure rage alone.  “You ruin everything you touch,” he spat, the words more wheezing than actual speech, and his feet tangled and caused him to lurch forward unsteadily.  “You’ve stolen a destiny you could never understand!”  She craned her head to look at him out of her good eye, and reaching deep into the quiet of her core, she summoned the fractured remains of her power.  

 

Violet sparks spilled from the corners of her eyes as she slung a hand out at him, and a forked bolt of lightning caught him at the center of his shattered chest and blew out his back in a spray of ruddy blood, bits of flesh, and shards of bone.  “Creators, I hope so,” she snarled out, wrapping an arm across her side as she began to crawl toward him.  He was little more than a shuddering heap of ruined flesh now, a soul trapped in a body that was drawing its last breaths.  When she’d finally drug herself to his side, she leaned over him; she wanted to watch the light in his eyes grow dim.  Hands that were more scorched bone than skin and muscle pawed at her jerkin, trying to grab hold, and finally managing a feeble grasp.  “Y-you could...never...understand it...the power.  It is...b-beyond you,” he hissed, ichor painting the breath and leaking from the corners of his mouth.  Shaky with the effort to support herself, she leaned down close enough to touch and growled at him from between her teeth, “I don’t have to  _ understand _ it to know it works,” with her mark flaring violently to life.  Her words had barely faded from the air when the red glow bled out of his eyes, and as she watched, the broken remains of the Warden’s body began to writhe as if something was trying to crawl out from the inside.  

 

As the first trickle of grey-tinged incarnadine mist began to coil from the body’s nose and mouth, she clamped her marked hand down forcefully over Stroud’s face and unleashed its power.  Instead of opening a rift, the energy roiled like virid acid, swirling and turning inside and out again and again as it sucked the crimson remains of the magister into its maw and devoured it.  As the vortex coiled in and in and in on itself, a world-shattering screech echoed around her as the collapsing void consumed itself.  From the epicenter, concussive shockwaves shot violently outward across the Fade, leaving nothing unscathed.

 

* * *

 

They’d fought their way to the rift chamber and left a prolific trail of red templar blood in their wake.  Cassandra’s sword cleaved into a templar, splitting him from neck to sternum, before she whirled to face the next.  Only a few steps away, Abelas’s halberd swept another from his feet before the crescent blade was planted into his head.  At the heart of the fray churned the rift itself, and all around it, chaos reigned.  It was only when the energy encasing the portal flared up, firing off gnarled fingers of lightning, that the lot of them took notice, and even then, there were only a spare few moments before an explosion of force tore through the chamber.  The impact bore every single body to the ground and sent a tremor through the stone floor before the rift snapped closed with an ear-splitting *POP*.  The Seeker and the Sentinel were the first to regain their footing, and taking advantage of the situation, the remainder of the templars fell before or as they were standing.  Rising no further than his knees, the red-haired mage slung a barrage of crimson spikes toward the pair as they advanced on him, but the magic shattered as Abelas’s glimmering barrier fell in a shield around them.  Before he could manage another spell, it was choked off by Cassandra’s gauntleted fist on his throat.  

 

“Where is she!?” the Seeker demanded, punctuating her question with violent shake.  When no answer was produced, Abelas snatched handfuls of the man’s shirt and hauled him to his feet.  “Answer, swine,” the elf sneered, his golden eyes flashing with a sharpness no less dangerous than the edge of his blade.  Coughing past the roughness of his throat, the red-haired man managed to choke out, “The Fade.  The rift.”  The Seeker and the Sentinel shared a glance before Cassandra called for the anti-magic collar.  It had no sooner been snapped around the man’s neck than a syllabant whisper scratched throughout the chamber and was followed by the scent of ozone.  Abelas could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and he turned toward the direction from which the power emanated.  As quickly and as violently as a lightning strike from a cloudless sky, virid threads of energy grew from nothingness and split the air as a rift tore open before their eyes.  The Sentinel squinted against the intense illumination, and when his vision adjusted, he found Niyera limping toward them.  Her hair and skin were stained red, and blood freely flowed from between the fingers of the hand closed over her side.  And her eyes...her eyes were radiant with the energy of the mark, fully consumed and glowing.  Wisps of green crept from their corners, and Abelas could feel the man in his grasp shaking.  Before she was in arm’s reach of them, she snapped out her hands, and the rift at her back closed with an echoing thunderclap, and but an instant later, she fisted the marked hand on empty air.  The red-haired mage was possessed by a convulsive seizure, and when the Sentinel looked back at him, blood was foaming on his lips and dribbling down his like drool.  

 

Both Cassandra and Abelas leaned away from Niyera, respectfully, as she came to stand before the man.  The Inquisitor caught his chin between her still-manacled hands and leaned in, setting her mouth near his ear.   _ I hope you enjoy the taste of your own blood...you’re going to die choking on it _ , she had told him.  Her voice was possessed of an otherworldly thrumming when she asked, “How does it taste?”  His wild eyes widened impossibly before they rolled back in his head, and his last breath expelled a mist of blood into the air as he expired.  With no further need to support him, Abelas released the man’s body and turned his attention to his companion.  “Inquisitor?” he ventured, lifting a hesitant hand toward her face.  When she gave no acknowledgement, he tried again, “Niyera?”  Her head turned toward him, the illumination in her eyes flickering fitfully as her head tilted.  The Sentinel cupped the side of her face as he whispered, “ _ Garas, lethallan _ .”  A shuddering breath tumbled over her lips, and she blinked once, twice, and the third time found the glow dispelled from her eyes.  With the light went whatever power it was that held her upright, and her legs folded under her weight.  

 

Both Abelas and Cassandra caught her before she collapsed, and they lowered her to lay her on the floor.  The Seeker shouted for a healer and started to rise, but Niyera caught the woman’s gauntlet.  “Cullen?  We...can’t leave Dorian.  ...have to take him home,” she said, her words long and drawn with the effort to speak.  Cassandra’s brow furrowed as she frowned at the elf, “Cullen is alive and safe.  And, yes, of course.  Dorian’s already with the healers.”  Seemingly unsatisfied, the Inquisitor fumbled for a better grip on the Seeker, “...can’t...don’t leave his body.”  Niyera’s eyes fluttered, and her fingers went slack as her head fell limply back against the Sentinel’s arm.  Abelas shook his head at Cassandra, murmuring, “She’s delirious.  We have to get her back.  Now.”  The woman’s expression turned grim, and she only nodded before she stood to lead the way to the portal standing by.  Hooking an arm beneath her knees and another behind her shoulders, Abelas lifted the unconscious Inquisitor easily and followed after the Seeker.  

 

* * *

The pungent scent of medicinal herbs filled the air, a mixture of poultices and incense that left behind an acrid sillage.  A young healer sat at the head of Niyera’s cot and was busy about plucking shards of stone from her cheek and brow with tweezers as Abelas tended to the cracked and bleeding skin of her marked hand and arm.  Still another surgeon stood opposite him, concentrating on the wound that bit deeply into her side.  She had yet to wake since leaving the Approach, and her only stirring was the faint rise and fall of her chest.  A few feet away, Dorian lay under the care of his own team of healers, though he fell into and out of consciousness at irregular intervals.  On the opposite side of her cot was Cullen.  He had been so fitful while his wounds were being tended that he had to be sedated.  At the foot of the cots, Cassandra stood, arms folded and strong jawline squared as she compulsively ground her teeth.  Abelas spared a brief glance up to her, asking, “Have you recalled the Qunari and his companion?  A swift rider should be able to catch up with them in less than a day’s time.”  Snapped from the dungeon of her thoughts, the Seeker promptly stopped grinding her teeth to reply, “Yes, I sent them as soon as we returned.  Bull would be furious if we did not do so.”  The Sentinel nodded, turning Niyera’s arm over in his hands to inspect his work.  “You should take some rest, Seeker.  I will stay,” the elf offered, and stubbornly, Cassandra shook her head.  Golden eyes fell aside to the dwarf that stood just behind the woman, and as always, Varric was quick to catch on.  “C’mon, Seeker.  There’s nothing to kill here.  Let the healers work,” the storyteller nudged, earning a himself a disgusted noise from the Seeker.  “I know.  I’ll pay for this later, put it on my tab.  Now, let’s go,” the dwarf continued, ushering her gently, but firmly out of the infirmary.

 

Abelas rested the back of Niyera’s hand on his knee as he retrieved a bulbous pot of salve from the side table, something of his own creation, and scooped out a healthy dollop.  Rubbing it out between his hands, he started at her elbow and gingerly massaged his way down to her fingertips until it was fully absorbed by her skin.  He was silent in his work, singularly focused on the task at hand.  His thumbs swept broad strokes over the back of her knuckles, then her palm, and it was only when he meshed his fingers with hers that he truly realized how much smaller her hand was.  His brow knitted as he wondered at the turn of his thoughts before he quickly tamped them down and took a roll of gauze in hand.  Layer over layer, he bound the length of her forearm down to her palm, leaving only her fingers bare.  When finished, he folded the arm gently over her stomach to rest with the other, then slid his eyes to her face.  Her naturally fair skin was exceptionally pale, and small holes and gashes puckered the skin on the left side of her face.  The bits of stone had been removed, but had yet to be healed.  Across from him, the healer working on her flank wound had a thin sheen of sweat on his brow; the wound was so severe, it required being healed a piece at a time from the inside out.  It would scar, but the rest should fade to invisibility in time.

 

Pushing up from his stool, he crossed over to the cot where Dorian lay.  He hadn’t before, but he understood now why Niyera had been so insistent that they not leave the Tevinter behind.  The scouts that remained to sort through the carnage they’d left found a demon that had taken his form and feigned death until it was discovered.  Without doubt, they’d used the double to persuade or torture her -- perhaps both.  The man himself had been beaten severely -- arm broken, skull fractured, lung punctured, but thankfully none of the other atrocities he’d heard were so common among mages and templars.  It would take time, but he would heal.  They all would.  Skin and muscle and bone were easy to mend in comparison to the rest, but having seen all of them in action in the temple, having lived with them now and come to know them, he had no doubts that they would all recover.  He laid a hand lightly on the shoulder of the nearest healer attending to Dorian and handed her a small, leather-bound bundle.  “Make a poultice of these, administer three times daily for the arm.  It should greatly reduce the pain and swelling,” he explained, and the woman nodded, accepting the offering with a smile.  Without anything further, he returned to Niyera’s side, and there he remained.

 

* * *

 

In favor of caring for her himself, Abelas had disdained the nurse assigned to stay with Niyera once she was well enough to be moved to her quarters.  There were likely to be concerns that regular Inquisition attendants would be ill-equipped to deal with:  the mark, the Well’s influence.  It would, in the end, be simpler and better this way, so he’d moved his meager belongings to her chambers.  Her desk chair was pulled to the fireside, cocked at an angle to face the bed, and there is where he spent most of his time.  Her only other caregiver was a well-fed grey feline who, from time to time, would stand on the spare pillow to inspect Niyera’s face before rubbing her face against the elf’s cheek.  Then, she would saunter down the length of the bed and snuggle up in a ball against her mistress’s leg.  The first two days after, the Inquisitor had not woken at all nor stirred except for her breathing.  Twice a day or more, as was sometimes needed, he cleaned her wounds, reapplied salves and poultices, and rebandaged, all with no response from her at all.  Not even in pain.  The only response came from the cat, who would alternately observe him with a casual, but profound interest or hiss.  He found it mildly concerning that Niyera had no pain reaction, even in sleep, but it was not wholly unexpected, especially given all that had likely gone on while she was in the Fade.  It would be impossible to know specifics until she woke, but the state he’d seen her in when she returned to them would have been a great expenditure of power.

 

He tucked the loose end of the bandage on her hand beneath the layers on her palm and carefully replaced the arm back at her side.  The spray of wounds on her face was little more now than pale pink scars that would fade to invisibility with time, except for the larger gash above her brow, which very well may leave a hair-thin mark.  The natural blush was beginning to return to her cheeks, and he frequently found himself staring for long intervals at her face.  He had no explanation as to why or perhaps it was merely uncomfortable to think too hard on the possibilities.  All the same, he felt compelled.  She bore the faintest scar on her right cheek, a line that cut under the high tilt of the bone, and the slope of her jawline was gentle.  Above her pointed chin was a generous mouth, full lips that fell most often into a thin line of concentration or a smirk.  When open, her eyes were gold-haloed viridian, a shade of blue-green found only in hidden lagoons kissed by the sun.  He pressed a hand against her forehead; his fingers were cool, and her skin was warm, but not fevered.  And while there, he used the touch as an excuse to push a lock of white hair back from her brow and tuck it behind her ear.  His fingers brushed along the tip and down the slope, lingering just a bit too long when he smoothed his rough thumb over the lobe.  He instantly felt ashamed of the liberty he’d taken and the absence of thought with which he’d done it and stood.  Striding over to the balcony doors, he rotated his neck and rolled his shoulders before he clasped his hands behind his back, a faint burn suffusing his cheeks as he gazed out at the mountains.  The distraction of his thoughts abruptly shifted as his brow fell low, and he turned his gaze down to find the cat rubbing against his shins before twining in and out between his legs.

 

He had no sooner bent to give the cat a scratch when the creature’s ears perked, and it bounded away and up onto the bed.  His brow knitted as his eyes followed the feline and found it standing on Niyera’s neighboring pillow, face pressed into her hair as if trying to whisper in her ear.  In response, her eyes fluttered, and she reached a weak hand up as if to paw at the disturbance.  A few brisk steps brought Abelas to her side again, and he sat on the edge of the bed.  “Inquisitor?” he ventured quietly before pressing his cool hand to her forehead again, then the backs of his fingers to her cheek.  Her lids had stilled over her eyes once more, and her breath was slow and even.  A frown traced his lips as he withdrew his hand; she had woken, however briefly, and he had missed it.  His shoulders sagged as he passed a hand over his face, then he heard her voice, “H-how many times must I ask you...not to call me that?”  Relief flooded his chest and tugged a smile onto his lips.  When he looked to her face, he found her eyes open, and he turned to rest a hand on hers.  “Several more at the very least, I am certain,” he answered as he studied her; heavier than the weariness, sorrow haunted her features and hooded her eyes, while leaving her lips to fall into a frown.  

 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, but she ignored the question and answered instead with one of her own, “How’s Cullen?”  The Sentinel took a deep breath and nodded, “He will recover.  His injuries were severe, but once we managed to sedate him, the healers were able to tend to him.”  Her head dipped into a half-nod before turning aside, allowing her eyes to stray as she spoke with a voice choked by emotion, “And Dorian’s b-...tell me we were able to bring him back to Skyhold.”  Even from this angle, he could see the tears that had begun to well in her eyes, and a gentle finger on her jawline was all it took to turn her face back to him.  “He is alive, Niyera,” Abelas said softly, and he felt the lurch the hitching of her breath caused in her body.  Her eyes widened a fraction as her volume fell to a whisper, “But, I saw his-,” and he silenced her with a shake of his head.  “It was a demon.  It had assumed his form.  Dorian  _ is _ alive,” he assured her, and as he watched his words sink in, the tears dammed in her eyes fell down her cheeks.  “Ah,  _ lethallan _ , shhh,” he murmured as he cupped her cheek in his palm, and she raised her good hand to cover the other half of her face as she wept.  No further words passed between them; there was only her soft sobs of relief and his murmured efforts to calm her, and they only stopped when she had cried herself back to sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No violence, just some angry Abelas, then some sweet Abelas.

Since before Niyera had walked out of the Fade in Coracavus, the pale amber message crystal tucked within an inner pocket had been thrumming, ever more insistently.  Abelas had continued to ignore it.  He’d had more important matters to attend to, but now that things were quieter and the Inquisitor was resting easy, he relented to the summons of the crystal.  He withdrew from her chambers to the steps just outside the inner door and retrieved the gem.  It warmed instantly in his hand, and a voice from the other side came sternly through, “I trust there is a reason for your avoidance.”  Abelas rested against the wall, the stones cool on his back, even through his clothes.  “There have been  _ other _ urgent matters that required my full attention,” he explained.  

 

The voice was silent for a while, then strained when it asked, “Corypheus is truly destroyed then?”  Golden eyes slanted down to the crystal in his hand with a hint of annoyance.  “That is the question you choose to ask?  Not ‘how is she?’ or ‘is she safe?”  The silence that radiated from the message crystal was intense, and after a while, he began to wonder if the connection had been terminated.  Then, the voice came again, “I could feel that she was still alive.  What she did echoed across the Fade,” there was a pause, then, “I knew I could trust you to guarantee the mission’s success.”  

 

The Sentinel made an incredulous sound, following with, “ _ I _ was not there.  What she did, she did  _ alone _ .”  The voice’s reply was so sudden and filled with heat that the crystal’s gentle thrum turned into a tremor in his palm, “How could you _ not _ go with her?  You were  _ explicitly _ instructed to protect her, and you let her face him  _ alone _ ?”  Abelas stood away from the wall, eyes narrowing as he spoke, “None of us knew Corypheus was behind this.  We all thought him  _ dead _ .  No one could have predicted tha-,” and his voice drew off.  A cold fist coiled in his stomach at the same time as fire licked up his spine and across his scalp.  

 

“ _ You _ knew,” Abelas hissed, “Tell me I am wrong.  Tell me that you did not let her go there blind when you could have warned her of what she would find.”  When only silence greeted him, he raised his voice until it was a loud echo off the walls, “TELL ME.”  There was a distortion in the crystal, before the voice returned, “I knew, but I could not risk his forces discovering that I was aware.  I needed more time to ensure that he had regained all his shattered fragments before he was killed.  If he was not whole, it would not be sufficient.”  

 

“Needed more time?” Abelas asked, his mind turning over as he stalked along the short corridor.  “You sent the assassins.  You sent them as a diversion, and you led me,  _ let _ me believe that they were opportunities to bring her remaining enemies among the Venatori out into the open.  So that  _ we _ could cut off the head of the snake.”  The voice that came through the crystal faltered, then said, “They  _ were _ Venatori forces.”  Anger flared hot on the Sentinel’s cheeks, and he slammed a fist down on the wood railing.  The sound reverberated around him, “But,  _ you _ sent them!  I will not abide your lies.  I am  _ not _ one of your feeble Dalish recruits that fawn over themselves with the blind desire to do your bidding.”

 

The Sentinel’s eyes were dark, “There are limits to my loyalty.  I will not stand idly by while you so blatantly jeopardize the woman  _ you _ profess to love, the bearer of the Well.  She deserves better.”  The normally calm facade Abelas wore like a shield was fractured, and his breaths fell heavy from his chest.  He paused, willing the volume of his voice to a more acceptable level, “I will do as I swore, I will protect her, even if that means protecting her from  _ you _ .”    He could feel the fluster burning on his cheeks.  His eyes slipped closed as he braced his hands on the railing and bowed his head between his arms, attempting to regain some semblance of composure.

 

“I understand your anger, Abelas, but it was necessary,” the voice said, somewhat quieter than before.  The Sentinel huffed an incredulous laugh, “Necessary to whom?  Do you even  _ know _ what they did to her?  To the others?  Do you even care?”  “Of course I care,” the voice answered before continuing, “But I needed-,” and Abelas cut off the voice.  “Yes, I am aware of your  _ needs _ , those that come at the expense of all others.  I am done with this, Solas.  I intend to tell her everything I know, and she can decide for herself what she wants to do and if she wishes me to stay.”  

 

Solas’s voice grew in pitch with the haste of his answer, “Abelas, reconsider this decision.  Think of what it might do to her.  Do you think she will thank you when you confess your lies?”  The Sentinel stood straighter as he answered, “I have not lied, I have simply not given her the whole truth.  That was a mistake I intend to remedy.”  He straightened his back and squared his shoulders as he gripped the crystal so tightly it bit into his palm, “And, she is not a child, Solas.   It is past time you ceased to treat her as such.  She  _ deserves _ to know.  I owe her that.   _ You _ owe her that.  I will not continue to insult her by hiding the truth from her.”  Solas’s voice pleaded through the crystal, “It will break her.  You do not kn-,” but before he could finish, Abelas dropped the crystal to the wooden walkway and crushed it under his heel.

 

___________________

  
  
  
  


Only a sliver of light was slipping through the curtains when she woke, and it slanted diagonally across the bed.  She felt heavy and dense, both in body and in mind.  Her memories of the last couple of days were hazy at best, but she recalled flashes of faces:  Cassandra, Varric, Bull, and always Abelas.  Her eyes scanned the room, but didn’t find her constant companion.  Pushing herself into a sitting position, she flipped the blankets back to dangle her legs over the side of the bed.  Dizziness made her sway, and while she waited for her body to adjust, she idly took account of herself.  Her marked hand was still covered in bandages, there was a new scar on her thigh, and her side felt like she’d been hit by a battering ram.  It caused her to groan when she stood, the muscles tight and tender as she pushed to her full height.  One of the only people she  _ hadn’t _ seen was Dorian, and she remembered what Abelas had told her.   _ Not dead.  Alive _ .  But, she needed to see it with her own eyes.

 

One careful step at a time, she made her way to the chest of drawers, then simply stood gripping it for support.  Her legs were shaking, and she took a few steadying breaths in an effort to calm the trembling.  When she was sure she wouldn’t collapse under her own weight, she fished out a shirt and a pair of pants before shuffling over to the end of the bed.  She puffed out a huge breath when she dropped onto the mattress to sit, attempting not to be so discouraged that such a small distance winded her.  Tucking her hair back behind her ears, she shrugged into the shirt and buttoned it most of the way up before she got frustrated with the small size of the buttons and decided she was decent enough.  Maneuvering into the pants was a little trickier, but she eventually managed and found their laces more agreeable.  

 

She was just tying a knot into the leather cords when she heard the door open, and she saw the white-blond top of Abelas’s head come into view.  He didn’t see her until he’d mounted the top of the stairs and turned, and his eyes widened at the sight of her.  “Where, may I ask, do you think you are going?”  He came up to her and set his hands on her upper arms.  Glancing up, she braced a hand on one of the posts of the bed; her legs were shaking already.  “I’m going to see Dorian,” she replied, her voice hoarse and soft.  “No, I do not think you are,” he corrected, sliding a hand down to her elbow as if to lead her back to the bed.  She set her jaw stubbornly and tightened her grip on the bed post.  “I am,” she insisted, refusing to be led anywhere.  His gilt-hued eyes panned down to her, the line of his mouth growing taut, “How, exactly?  You can barely stand.”  By now, the trembling had moved up her legs, past her stomach, and into her arms, but she refused to be swayed.  

 

“I’ll crawl if needs be,” she began as she tried to push past him, but he was as unmovable as Skyhold itself.  Dragging in a deep breath, she lifted her chin defiantly to look him in the eye, “You have two choices, Abelas.  You can help me, or you can get out of my way.”  They studied each other in silence, two unrelenting forces at an impasse, for so long that she had to lean her hip into the end of the bed or collapse.  One corner of his mouth pinched, and the line of his brow furrowed.  “Very well,” he relented, then added, “At least allow me to fix your shirt.”  She frowned as she inspected her shirt and was taken by surprise when Abelas’s hand caught her waist.  He’d moved to sit on the end of the bed and pulled her between his legs.  

 

“Hold onto my shoulders,” he ordered as he began to deftly undo all the buttoning she’d had such a hard time with.  He glanced at her briefly when she gripped his shoulders, and noting the confusion in her expression, he explained, “You missed a few button holes.  It was lopsided.”  She mouthed a quiet  _ Oh _ and  _ thank you _ before she turned her attention over his shoulder as she tried to ignore the cool touch of his fingers on neck when he straightened her collar.  Finished with the task, his hands on her hips pushed her back enough to allow him to stand, and she started to wrap an arm over his shoulder, expecting that she would walk while leaning on him. 

 

Instead, he hooked an arm beneath her knees and another behind her back and lifted her.  Her lips pursed as she stared at him, and he adjusted her weight in his arms until it was comfortable.  “I can walk.  I just needed help,” she insisted.  With a flat expression, he glanced at her, saying, “You want to go, and I agreed to help.  If you go, this is how you are going.”  There was a tone to his voice that discouraged questions.  “Do you still want to go?” he asked, one brow arched.  “Yes,” was her simple reply.  “Then put your arms around my neck,” he instructed, and in compliance, she slid an arm across his shoulders and laced the fingers of both hands on the side of his neck.  Satisfied, he nodded, and they departed her quarters.

 

When they arrived, Dorian’s door was closed, and once in arm’s reach, she rapped on the wood.  “I think I can make it the rest of the way on my own,” she said, and Abelas was still giving her a doubtful look when the door swung inward.  “Boss!” was Bull’s greeting as he filled the doorway, “You’re looking loads better.”  The Qunari’s voice trailed off into an amused expression as Niyera pinched Abelas’s shoulder, and he finally sat her down.  “Thanks, Bull.  Is he awake?” she asked, managing to keep her voice even despite her insides being twisted like a dough pretzel.  She couldn’t see anything beyond the wall that was The Iron Bull, so the image that kept flashing through her head was the last she’d seen of Dorian.

 

“Oh, sure,” he said, standing aside to allow the elves to enter.  She was alright when she hobbled through the doorway, and she was alright as she was making her way to the bedroom that sat just off the small sitting room.  She became not alright when she finally found Dorian propped up in bed, reading a book, and quite alive.  She couldn’t be sure if it was the happiness that made her cry or the fear of what they might  _ actually _ have done to him or the anger at them and herself for the entire mess.  However, the tears were there all the same, and she barely choked out his name before he looked up from his book and noticed her.  The tome was promptly discarded, and his arms opened wide to catch her when she half jumped, half collapsed onto the bed.  They both grunted in pain, but it wasn’t enough to make either let go of the other.

 

“I thought you were dead,” Niyera sobbed against his neck, arms locked around him.  The circle of Dorian’s arms closed around her midsection, and he rested his cheek in her hair.  “You know I’m too pretty to die,” he said, voice thick, before he placed a kiss on the crown of her head.  She couldn’t help but laugh and pulled back, releasing his shoulders only to grasp his face in her hands.  There were tears in his eyes, but he smiled regardless, and she leant up to kiss one cheek, then the other.  “You are, in fact, far too pretty,” and it was his turn to chuckle before kissing her forehead.  

 

On the other side of the archway in the sitting room, Bull and Abelas stood side by side, casually spectating the reunion.  Bull slid a glance over at the elf, “Couldn’t keep her in bed, eh?”  Abelas could only shake his head, “No.  I left for a moment, and when I returned, she was already dressed.”  The Qunari grunted in acknowledgement.  “If I had not agreed to help her, she said she would crawl here,” the elf commented as he turned his eyes to Bull, who gave a hearty laugh.  “That sounds about right.  Doesn’t do anything half-way, that one.  It’s all or nothing,” he said as he folded his arms.  Abelas looked back to Niyera and Dorian, and admittedly, her happiness was infectious.  He smiled faintly.  “So, she is always this difficult, then?”  Bull laughed again, but said nothing as he clapped the Sentinel on the back, rocking him forward slightly.  

 

__________

 

After leaving Dorian’s quarters, Abelas insisted on carrying her back to her own, though they made a stop at the kitchen on the way.  Neither had eaten, so one of the cooks made up a basket of breads, cheeses, and fruit for them.  Sitting now on opposite ends of the couch facing each other, the basket rested between them.  “‘ _Ma serannas_ , Abelas.  It was important to me to see him,” she said, picking up a small cluster of grapes from the basket.  He studied her for a moment, finishing with his apple slice before cutting another wedge, “ _Sathem, lethallan_ ,” he replied with a slight inclination of his head.  “I can only imagine that trying to reconcile what you saw with the truth was difficult,” he added, layering a thin piece of cheese on his apple wedge before taking a bite.  Her chewing slowed, and she swallowed thickly before she nodded.  “Dorian was the last among us standing.  Cullen fell first, then I did,” she said, almost idly plucking the last grape from the stem before discarding it into the basket.  

 

“And, that is when you activated the crystal?” he inquired, cocking an elbow over the couch arm as he leaned back.  She chuckled, but it was nearly bereft of any humor, “No, I never got a chance to use it.  It must have broken when...when they threw me against the wall.”  Her voice drew off when her eyes strayed over his shoulder, “When I woke up, I found myself chained to the wall in an anti-magic collar.  I’d hidden it in my jerkin pocket, and I wasn’t wearing it then.”  Though Abelas’s expression remained neutral, a sort of hardness stole over his eyes as they darkened.  She took in a deep breath as she found his eyes again, and noting the change, she shook her head, “It’s not a story that needs to be told right now,” and she popped the last grape in her mouth.  

 

He bent forward, resting his forearm against his knee as he spoke, “It is if you need to tell it.  I know I have no need to remind you of the danger of buried memories,” he paused long enough for her to nod in response before he continued, “Just know that if you need, I will be here to listen.”  She watched him as he leaned back, comforted by his recognition of her need and with a great appreciation for his tendency to tell her what she  _ needed _ to hear, not always what she  _ wanted _ to hear.  With something of a grunt-groan, she pushed to her feet, and when he started to rise, she laid a hand on his shoulder to stop him.  He tilted his head upward to find her gaze and also found a smile, haunted and small, but there.  She leaned down and placed a lingering kiss on his forehead.  

 

“‘ _Ma serannas_ , Abelas,” she said, resting her palm against his cheek for a moment before she shuffled over to the bed.  Settling on top of the covers with an arm curled beneath her head, she hugged a pillow to her chest.  He still hadn’t said anything and was still regarding her with a concerned eye when she asked, “Will you be here when I wake up?”  One corner of his mouth twitched upward as he settled back against the couch, saying, “Yes.  Rest now.”  She needed no further encouragement to close her eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More fluffy, sweet stuff.

The oilcloth of the tent flap rustled when she turned it back, and laughter tinted her words as she spoke, “I’m surprised at you, Sentinel.  I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so much.”  Her head dipped as she ducked into the tent, and a twirl of her lithe fingers lit a pair of lamps with golden magelight.  He was close on her heel, and his chuckle was a gravelly rumble in his chest, “You thought me incapable?”  The firm shaking of her head caused the drape of her hair to sway, gilded threads of white beneath the enchanted flames of the lamps.  “Perhaps when I first met you, but now...I just didn’t expect it to become more than a rare occurrence,” she confessed with a grin as she turned and sat on the edge of her cot.  The line of his brow slanted as he gazed down at her, only barely capable of standing to his full height at the peak of the tent.  

 

“I smile around you,” was his protest, and the color on his cheeks was more due to the mead he wasn’t used to drinking than any genuine upset.  Comparatively, he knew he was reserved; it was a trait that had been drilled into him, reinforced, and practiced dutifully for more than a millennia.  It’s not a discipline easily shed, a habit thrown off as one might discard a cloak.  It was so ingrained in him, it was no longer a practice; it was simply who he was.  Over the months he’d spent with the Inquisition, specifically with Niyera, her friendship and presence had drawn him out of himself to a degree.  He found himself more at ease, less rigid than he could ever recall being.  It was apparent to him that she was beginning to etch cracks in the surface of the mask he wore as effortlessly as anyone else might breathe.  

 

She was already busy unlacing her boots and loosed a snort of a chuckle before flashing a glance up to him, “When?  It must be when I’m not looking.”  His arms crossed over his broad chest as he adopted a disapproving expression as he struggled to recall an actual, relevant circumstance.  After a few moments, his brow lifted slightly, and he said, “When we spar.  I smile then.”  Her hands stilled completely, and she propped one on her knee as she craned her head up, “Is  _ that _ what you call that?  I thought perhaps you were in pain.  Or snarling.  Or caught in an upwind draft from the stables.”  The tension that evolved in his posture and creased his lips into a frown told her that he didn’t find her teasing a fraction as amusing as she did, so she tried to mask her wide grin and only partially managed to succeed.  

 

When she still found him frowning, squinted at him, saying, “Pull,” as she leaned back and stretched her booted foot out to him.  One side of his nose wrinkled, and he hesitated, but only a moment before he gripped her boot, toe and heel, and tugged it off.  The process was repeated for the other foot.  Task completed, he went back to his disapproving frown, and without another word, he sank down onto his cot across the tent from hers.  As the quiet drew on, she began to feel guilty for poking fun at him, but she let him pout until the silence became uncomfortable.  With a deep sigh, she crossed to his side of the tent and sat beside him, intentionally bumping her leg into his.  

 

“I know you smile, Abelas.  I spoke only in jest,” she said, leaning forward to find his eyes beneath the bow of his head.  “I realize that,” he returned, not glancing up as he fished through the satchel on the ground between his feet.  She observed him in silence, clasping her hands between her knees awkwardly.  “Was it something else I said?  It wasn’t my intention to-,” and he cut her off, saying, “I just do not have any pithy commentary to offer you about my smiles or lack thereof.”  Tugging his sketchbook free of his satchel, he slid the bag under the cot before he sat back and looked over at her.  “I am what I am, and I smile when I smile.  I cannot say I have ever thought on it over much,” he finished as he tapped the leather-bound book against his knee idly.

 

It was obvious to her she’d touched a chord and that he didn’t intend to discuss it.  She felt like she had just ruined what had truly been an exceptional evening with her insensitive attempt at humor.  Glancing away from his gaze, she tapped a fingertip on the cover of his sketchbook.  A change of subject.  “I noticed you sketching earlier.  May I see?”  His head fell a tick to the side as he eyed her, then with a single nod of his head offered the book out to her.  Her feet lifted onto toes to elevate her knees as she rested the sketchbook between them and splayed it open to the satin ribbon marker.  

 

The first few sketches seemed to be of patterns:  the designs in the sails of the aravels, the weave of the grass rugs around the fire, the tight thatch of the water hyacinth baskets.  She turned the page carefully, and she felt Abelas’s weight shift beside her, the press of his shoulder to hers as he endured her appraisals.  Next, were things and people:  the talisman the clan Keeper had worn around his neck, the young twin brother and sister that fell asleep against each other at the fire’s edge, the hands of the elder that had stone-baked their bread.  “These are lovely.  You capture the details so well.  Is this something you’ve always been able to do or did you learn?” she asked, sparing a short glance before she turned the page.

 

He steepled his hands beneath his chin as he rested his elbows on his knees, still keenly watching her.  “I have always enjoyed art, and I had some natural talent.  The rest was simply having many years of practice,” he said, and she gave him a smile at that.  “I’m sure.  What do you prefer to draw?  How do you decide what you’ll work on next?”  His eyes drifted from her as his shoulders drew up in an absent shrug, “I draw what I find beautiful or worth remembering.”  She had just begun to voice her reply when she turned the page and found a sketch of herself.  It seemed he’d caught her while she was teaching one of the children how to weave fringed stalks of tickleweed into small poppets.  

 

She was taken aback.  Heat rose to her cheeks and quickly spread, and she felt at once embarrassed and touched.  Before she could help herself, a question escaped her lips, hesitant and quiet, “Which am I?”  When he tilted his head to look back at her, his braid fell over his shoulder, and his brows lifted.  He angled his body so that he could better see which drawing she’d discovered, and she found herself staring at him.  Eventually, his eyes panned up to hers, and very simply, he said, “Both.”  His answer tugged a pleasant thread of heat through her body, and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of her reaction.  Her mouth opened, and she expected some manner of sound to come out, but when it didn’t, Abelas smiled and leaned a little closer.  

 

“Niyera,” he began, his golden eyes fixed to hers.  Her heartbeat was a whispered rush in her ears, and when she said  _ Yes? _ her voice cracked a bit.  Gently, he gripped her chin between his thumb and his curled forefinger and whispered, “This is me smiling.”  She blinked at him, at the faint hint of mischief that tainted his words and glinted in his eyes, and she abruptly laughed.  The warmth in her cheeks was all embarrassment now, and it was evident that he’d noticed as his smile quickly dissolved into a smirk.  “You’re an ass!” she accused as she shoved him, snapping the sketchbook closed as she shot to her feet.  “A complete cad,” she said as she pushed his book into his chest.  He just chuckled at her as she stalked back over to her cot and flopped down onto it, stretching out on its length in a huff.  She roughly crossed her arms, and when she glanced, she found a smug grin on his face.  A disgusted noise fell from her lips as she snapped her hand on the air, and the lamps extinguished.  In the darkness, all she could hear was his renewed chuckling.

 

__________

  
  


Though much of Skyhold had already retired for the evening, she knew that she would most likely find Abelas awake as the ancient seemed to sleep less than most she knew.  And, despite that dinner had been filling and she wasn’t exceptionally  _ hungry _ , she’d stole into the kitchen after the cooks had departed and scrounged up a few of the treasures they liked to keep hidden:  strawberries, white nectarines which she’d sliced, a piece of dark chocolate, and some wildflower honey.  Arranged in a segmented dish, she’d padded across the ramparts to the tower where Abelas’s room was housed.  It had been a couple of weeks since their visit with the Dalish, and they hadn’t had a great deal of time to talk.  At his door, she knocked and waited.  When she heard no reply, she knocked again a little louder.  There was still no answer, and she became a bit concerned.  

 

Pushing open the door, she poked her head in and called out to him, “Abelas?”  The room was lit by a single candle, enough for her to see that the bed was empty, and he was nowhere else in the room.  It surprised her a bit when she heard his voice, but couldn’t quite place it, “I am here,  _ lethallan _ .”  She stepped more fully into the room and only then noticed that he’d removed the planks boarding the window -- they were waiting for replacement glass -- and it stood open to the night air.  Stepping over to the arched opening, she craned her head out to find Abelas lying on a blanket he’d spread over the sloped roof of the overhang, with one arm tucked back beneath his head and other draped over his stomach.  His head tilted to regard her with his golden eyes, meeting her perplexed expression with one of relaxed ease.  

 

“Are you not cold?  You must freeze at night without the window,” she said, a hint of concern in her voice.  He only shook his head.  “You have provided me with blankets enough.  I prefer to be able to see the sky.”  When he turned his gaze upward again, she followed his eyes, staring for a moment into the inky black above them.  Stars littered the darkness like thousands of tiny diamonds set in velvet, winking in and out of existence, it seemed, with every blink of an eye.  “May I join you?” she finally asked, and he didn’t look her way when he answered with a simple  _ If you wish _ .  Setting the dish on the table near the window, she boosted herself up onto the sill and swung her legs over to the roof.  Before she stood, she retrieved her treats, then carefully shuffled her way over to Abelas and sat down on the blanket beside him.

 

“I brought things to nibble on.  Strawberries and nectarines,” she said as she scooted down on the blanket to lay at his side.  Her hip brushed his.  He didn’t shy away from the contact, but something in him seemed to tense as he glanced over at her.  “Why?  Did you not take your evening meal?”  She made a noise that lay somewhere between a snort and a chuckle as she settled the dish on her stomach.  “I did, but hunger isn’t necessarily the only reason to eat,” she said as she plucked up a slice of nectarine and waggled it at him.  The line of his brow straightened, the corners of his mouth tightened, and he gave her a somewhat disapproving look.  “It is the only reason that should be indulged.  Anything else is frivolity,” he offered, only watching as she crunched through the last bite of her nectarine.  

 

She answered his disapproval with incredulity, one brow drawing higher than the other, “Did the ancients not indulge from time to time beyond what was strictly  _ necessary _ ?”  He hummed something behind the line of his lips and looked back up at the sky.  “Those of my station did not.  It was very rare to encounter such luxuries,” he said, and he only glanced her way again when her silence and the weight of her gaze became uncomfortably heavy.  His expression was neutral, as it frequently was, though the angles natural to his face made the look harder than she knew it to be.  It would have been impossible for her to mask her thoughts completely, but she managed to keep the bulk of it locked away and betrayed only the slightest hint of sadness in her eyes.  

 

She knew she’d failed to hide it all when his lips twisted, and he looked away from her.  “Do not look at me like that,  _ lethallan _ .  There is no reason to.”  Her mouth drew into a frown as she spoke, “Like what exactly?”  He shifted a little, bending his arm to set his free hand behind his head for support.  “Like you pity me.  I have no need of pity.  I have lived well, my needs satisfied.  What else could I want?” he finished, canting his head look at her out of the corner of his eye.  “I think you misunderstand me, Abelas.  It’s not pity or even a matter of what you might want for yourself.  Perhaps I just want more for you.  More than simply having your  _ needs _ met,” she said, pausing only to take a deep breath as she looked skyward.  

 

“This is a different place and a different time.  I would like for you to take some pleasure in it, to find something beyond  _ duty _ .  That’s not all you are.  It’s not all you have to be.”  She was still gazing at the stars when he turned his head to fully take her in.  The light breezes had stirred wisps of hair and tugged them over her forehead, and the moonlight painted silver strokes over the slope of her cheeks and the bow of her mouth.  An unfamiliar sensation coiled in his chest as he watched her, and it furrowed his brow.  He was uncertain what to do with her words, so they hung in the forefront of his thoughts, turning over and over until they were rolled smooth like rocks on a riverbed, and then sank into his heart.

 

“Which should I try first?” he asked when he finally spoke, having never looked away from her.  “What?” she returned, voice pitched in mild confusion as if he’d pulled her from her thoughts unexpectedly.  “The strawberries or the nectarines.  Which should I try first?” he explained, never moving, never pulling his gaze from hers.  The smile that bent her lips was slow to form, but it did so fully and lit her eyes.  She fished a slice of pale fruit from the dish, offering, “The nectarines,” before she swirled the end of the crescent in honey.  With a twirl of her wrist, she wound the threads of honey around the fruit as she pulled it from the dish, then offered it over to him to sample.  He leaned up from his hands to bite the slice, breaking half of it off before settling down again.  

 

“Oop,” he heard her say as she reached for his face, scooping from his chin an escaped drop of honey.  Before she thought about it, she popped her thumb into her mouth to suck off the bead of sweetness, and he couldn’t help but watch her do it despite his attempt to look away.  She seemed not to have noticed his being transfixed or that he’d forgotten to chew, and quipped an expectant, “Well?”  His eyes slipped back up to hers, and he chewed, then nodded.  “Crisper than I expected.  The honey is a nice complement.  Wildflower, is it not?”  She hummed her affirmation before she bit down on the other half of the slice.  “I like them a little underripe.  I prefer the texture, and it gives me an excuse for the honey,” she smiled, a soft upward turn at the corners of her mouth.

 

Without warning, she scooted flush against his side and rested her head back on his shoulder as she set the dish of fruit to balance across their bodies.  He stiffened slightly, but didn’t move, not quite sure what to make of her.  Either way, she seemed unaffected and glanced up at him with a vaguely pleased expression.  “Ready for a strawberry?”  He could only murmur his confirmation and try to ignore the fist that gripped at his insides and the fingers that tickled along his spine.  Picking up the piece of chocolate, she broke it into several smaller pieces and handed one over to him.   

 

“Let it melt a little on your tongue,” she began as he accepted the sweet, “and then take a bite,” and followed up by handing him a plump strawberry.   Doing as instructed, he found himself averting his eyes from her expectant gaze, not at all sure why, though it gave him an air of thoughtfulness.  When he sank his teeth into the berry, he was forced to close his lips around it and make an embarrassing slurping noise.  It was juicier than he anticipated, and her soft laughter summoned his eyes back to hers.  The flavors mixed on his tongue, the subtle bitterness of the dark chocolate chased away by the sweet ripeness of the strawberry.  He found it very agreeable.  He nodded to her as he nibbled away the bits of fruit clinging to the green and casually tossed the leaves over the edge of the overhang.  

 

“I...like that one much better,” he commented, and he was again greeted by the light burble of her laughter.   “I thought you might,” she said without explanation as she shifted the dish to lay on his stomach.  When she didn't explain, he shifted a bit to bump his hip into hers and met her gaze with a silent question.  She only smiled and shrugged before she stole a piece of chocolate for herself.  “You just seem like a dark chocolate kind of man,” and with that, she passed the dark candy across her lips, and he could tell by the working of her jaw that she was rolling it over on her tongue.  He half-hummed, half-grunted his acknowledgement of her words, then looked back up at the sky.

 

They spent hours on that small patch of roof, stargazing in comfortable silences that were bookended by bits of conversation that she managed to tease out of him.   He wasn't sure what loosened his tongue, perhaps the chocolate, but he was glad to have some time to talk with her.  He found it unburdening, and though he wouldn't admit it to himself until later, he felt bereft when they'd finished the fruit and she'd withdrawn from his side to finally turn in for the night.  It was more than the sudden intrusion of cool night air that rushed in to take her place, but rather a warmth that lingered in the pit of his stomach even after he himself retired to bed.  


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some Abelas and Niyera angst. Then some ANGRY Niyera. Then some more fluffy angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Elvhen from @fenxshiral (https://archiveofourown.org/works/3553883?view_full_work=true)
> 
> The exchange at the end is an intimate form of "thank you" and "you're welcome."
> 
> Ma melava halani = You have spent your time to help me.  
> Ara melava son’ganem = My time is well-spent.

Crouched by the hearth, Niyera carefully stacked the last piece of wood atop the grate in the fireplace.  A gesture set the dry lengths aflame, and she held out both hands to the fire.  She was just settling in for the night, with the day’s business concluded in as much as it could be.  A glance at her desk reminded her, however, that there was always paperwork to be done.  A light bump against her knee alerted her to Fade’s presence, the cat apparently having been roused from her place on the couch.  A small smile fell on the feline, and Niyera plucked her up as she stood, cradling her in her arms like a child, with her fuzzy front paws propped on her shoulder.  

 

“Have you been productive today, Messere Fade?”  A meow was her answer as she blinked wide, sea green eyes at Niyera.  “I see.  Content with your work, are you?”  The feline’s eyes squinted shut as she rubbed her cheek against Niyera’s jaw, rumbling a loud purr.  A helpless smile formed on the elf’s lips, and she scratched first behind one furry ear, then the other.  She had just moved to sit on the couch when a faint knocking at the door called for her attention.  “Our work is never done,” she said, giving the cat a smooch before sitting her down on the floor.  When she opened her door, she found Abelas standing in the lamp-lit space beyond, his downcast eyes rising to hers.  “May I have a moment of your time, Inquisitor?”  Niyera frowned at the formality, and she sensed the tension that rolled off the Sentinel like heavy mists surging ashore.

 

“Of course, Abelas.  And, you know you needn’t be so formal,” she said, standing aside to hold the door open as she gestured him inside.  The ancient Elvhen was not one to slouch or shuffle, always standing straight and proud, but there was something in his gait that betrayed a certain reluctance.  He paced immediately to the far side of the hearth and turned, waiting as she trailed up the short set of steps behind him.  “What’s troubling you?” she asked as she came around the corner at the top of the steps and leaned back against the edge of the railing.  “It’s obvious something is.”  The firelight reflected rust-hued slivers on his golden eyes, and he carefully clasped his hands at the wrists behind his back.  “There is something I must tell you,” he answered, never breaking eye contact, though a breath noticeably made his chest swell.

 

A slender brow lifted as she crossed her arms beneath her breasts, uttering a slow, “Very well.”  For the first time, Abelas’s eyes strayed, flitting momentarily to the couch before settling on her again.  “You may want to sit.”  The suggestion drew one corner of her mouth tight and pursed her lips slightly.  “I will stand,” she responded, her voice tight as apprehension frayed the edges of her thoughts.  “As you like,” the Sentinel began, following with, “I did not lie to you when I told you I had been called here.  That you...the Well...had called me here.”  He subtly shifted his weight to the opposite foot as he continued to speak, “Nor did I lie when I told you that I had doubts about your security and the competence of your guard.”  Her second brow rose to join the first, and she struggled to imagine why he would possibly be telling her this.  She had never suspected or accused him of deceit.

 

“Alright,” she said quietly, filling the brief lull in his words with the neutral acknowledgement.  “But, I neglected to mention that I had also been sent,” he said at last, and an arrow of unease shot from her heart and into her stomach.  “Sent by whom?” she abruptly countered, her hands curling into fists beneath her folded arms.  She knew she was in no danger from Abelas, but just the same, she feared his answer.  All the while, the Well’s voices were a dim swirl of noise in the back of her mind.  “Solas,” he answered, the name short and clipped on his lips.  The arrow that had buried itself in her stomach twisted, and a sharp ache blossomed from the wound.  It crawled right up into her heart.  She wasn’t certain when she had moved, but she was standing straight, her arms dangling limply at her sides.  Her voice seemed far away when she spoke:  “ _ What _ ?”  Concern was evident on Abelas’s face, and he took a step forward, but a gesture stopped him in his tracks.  A numb hand fumbled on the arm of the couch as she moved to sit, taking a deep breath before looking back up to the Sentinel.  

 

A myriad questions were asked by her eyes.  Why?  How?  She couldn’t seem to open her mouth to give voice to them, however.  It had been nearly two years.  Two years of searching and waiting and worrying.  Thankfully, her vocalization wasn’t needed, as Abelas began to speak again.  “After meeting you at Mythal’s temple, after the Well was discharged from my keeping, he led me to the Crossroads and beyond.  A sort of sanctuary for those such as we,” he paused, taking in her reaction.  “Such as we?” she asked, the tilt of her head spilling long, white hair over her shoulder.  Solas had always said the Dalish were not “his people,” just as Abelas had told her that she was not of “his people.”  She suspected she knew where her question would lead.  “He is not one of your people.  He is of the Elvhen, as I am.  Surely you...you knew that,” he ventured, taking a tentative step forward.  The shake of her head was brief, and the hand she laid on her knee gripped the joint carefully.  

 

“I suspected, given your short exchanges in the temple, but he never told me, and I never recovered any manner of proof.”  Her fingers tightened on her knee.  “It was only ever supposition on my part.”  Abelas lingered in front of the fire, still several feet from her.  “Then your powers of observation served you well.  After he left the Inquisition, he asked if I would be willing to serve as your protector,” the Sentinel confessed.  Niyera’s eyes jumped up to his, though his gaze was steady and unflinching.  “Already feeling the pull of the Well, I agreed.”  She resettled her weight on the couch and scrubbed her palms over her thighs.  “Why would he simply not return himself?” she asked, voice low and hesitant, and she purposefully averted her gaze to the fire.  The line of Abelas’s mouth tightened as he watched her, absorbing every shift in her features, and with a muted volume, he responded.  “I am not entirely certain.  ...other obligations, perhaps.”  It could have been a trick of the dancing firelight, but Niyera seemed to shrink, and the softness in her eyes lingered but a moment longer before it was replaced by a hardness that darkened her features.

 

“I see,” the Inquisitor said, almost off-handedly, as she rose from the couch.  Abelas didn’t retreat, but followed her with his eyes, though she was still gazing into the fire.  In mimicry of his stance, she clasped her wrists behind her back, standing a spare few feet away from the hearth.  “Is there anything else I should know?” she inquired, and the tone in her voice was just as tense as her body seemed to be.  “Yes,” Abelas answered, his eyes joining hers in their inspection of the fire.  “He knew about Corypheus, that you would find him in the Approach.”  The Sentinel had thought he’d seen steel in her eyes before on rare occasions, but he realized he had been mistaken until this very moment when her eyes lifted and settled on him with an edge so sharp he felt wounded by the weight of it.  She said nothing, only let her eyes roam over his before she looked back at the fire.  About him, the air grew abruptly heavy, and a prickle of magic caused the tiny hairs on his arms and neck to stand.  “Niyera, I  _ am _ sorry.  I was not aware of the magister nor that Sol-,” and his words were clipped when she interjected.  “You know where Solas is?”  His exhale was deep, and the shake of his head was slight as he spoke, “No.  He never stayed in the sanctuary he created.  And, he has always found me where I was when I was elsewhere.”  

 

Behind her back, her fingers curled into and out of fists, flexing stiffly as she began to speak, “So, let me see if I understand this.”  Her head turned, and she stared into Abelas before her body faced him as well.  “Solas left the Inquisition...left  _ me _ ...because he had  _ other _ obligations that he couldn’t be bothered to share or that he did not think me worthy of knowing.”  Her words paused as she took a step forward, but she quickly continued.  “He has evaded me in and out of the Fade for nearly  _ two years _ , leaving me to worry for him, to worry for his safety, never knowing if he was alive or dead, all the while supplanting my good council with his spy.”  A breath of ozone stirred the air as threads of violet-white shot across her eyes.  She was still advancing on him, slowly, inch by inch.  At the accusation, however, he spoke, features drawn with denial.  “Never.  I was never his spy, nor am I in his employ.”  Ignoring his words, she continued on, and her forward steps brought her close enough to him that he could feel the fury radiating off of her like electricity.  He took a pair of steps back.  “To keep watch over me, something he cares not enough to do himself, while he lets me walk headlong into a trap set by the very creature we spent  _ years _ together trying to defeat.”  Her head canted to one side, and the firelight threw shards of red-gold across her viridian eyes.

 

“A trap in which  _ I _ was tortured.  Dorian and Cullen were tortured.  That nearly killed all of us,” she forced the words out through clenched teeth, and it was only then that her voice began to tremble.  She never stopped stalking toward him, and he was backed as far as he could go, with his thighs braced against the edge of her desk.  When she stood flush against him, fists clenched at her sides, he could see a glistening in her eyes, though he couldn’t be sure if they were tears of anger or sadness.  “And, now... _ now _ , you choose to tell me this, to confess.  To what end?  What is his plan now?  What does he hope to accomplish?”  Abelas’s chin had fallen to allow him to look down at her, golden eyes bright with reflected auburn light, and his voice was controlled when he spoke.  “There is no plan.  None that I am aware of.  I thought you deserved to know.”  Her gaze narrowed into a sharp green blade.  “I tire of others deciding what I  _ deserve _ .  Why tell me now?”  Stock still and with his shoulders held back, he answered, “Because he misled me, which in turn caused me to allow you to wander into harm’s way.  I am not one of his fallen faithful.  I owe him nothing, and I will not play party to his games, especially at your expense.”  Abelas took a breath, then added, “He may have asked me to come to you, but the decision was my own, for my own reasons.  He is aware that he can no longer depend on my cooperation.”

 

One corner of her mouth twitched, scrunching the side of her nose in something like a snarl as she stared up at him silently.  He could see a small muscle jumping in her cheek, a pulsing in her jaw that told him her teeth were grinding.  With every quickened breath she took, her chest brushed his, and he was unwilling to look away from her.  “When, exactly,” she began, her voice dark with anger, “can I expect that the lot of you will stop treating me like a pawn in a chess game?  When will it ever be enough?”  The line of his brow fell low, and his mouth opened to speak, but she beat him to it.  “First, the Inquisition.  I’ve been made a part of their ridiculous religious and political squabbles, sent here and there to woo nobles and figures of state.  Dressed like some sort of Dalish doll,” the distasteful tone in her voice coated her words as she spat them.  “Then, Solas.  Creators only know what he got from stringing me along for all that time.  Unless it was just a convenient fuck he wanted.  Perhaps Corypheus was right -- I am just his  _ whore _ ,” she shoved the words at him with so much disdain, it almost hid the tremor that had returned to her voice.  However, she couldn’t hide the trembling of her shoulders.  “And, now you.  You have thought to make yourself the gatekeeper of what I should know and when, as if somehow you have  _ any _ right to do so.”

 

“Niyera,” he offered hesitantly, moving as if to raise a hand to her shoulder, but she swatted it away.  “You confess that you came for your own reasons, as if you are genuinely concerned, and you expect what?  That I should thank you?”  A bitter huff of a chuckle interrupted her words.  “I am but a shadow to you, Abelas.  A spoiled memory.  An ignorant child,” she said, each word a barb sharpened just for him.  The force behind her words had drawn her body taut, stretching her neck as if she was straining to spit the words directly into his face.  “That is, until I can serve some purpose for you.  Then... _ then _ , I have value,” her voice lowered as she tripped over the last of her words, and the tears that had been glistening in her eyes began to trickle from their corners.  “I perish to wonder what you and Solas had in mind for me next.”  Abelas could say nothing in the barrage of her accusations; first, it would be folly to even attempt it, and second, a few of them were valid.  The truth of that shamed him, and that shame burned on his skin, making him uncomfortably warm.  

 

Holding her gaze, he said nothing, but touched her hand, fingertips grazing the squared lines of her fist.  At once, she snapped her hand away and turned aside.  “You should leave,” she suggested quietly, but unquestionably, as she lifted an arm to gesture toward the steps.  “Now.”  Staring at her for a moment longer, Abelas bowed his head and started away, pausing at the top of the stairs.  “I apologize that I did not tell you the whole truth from the beginning and that I never expressed how unfairly I judged you upon our first meeting,” he said, voice even as his hand fell lightly on the railing.  Though he fought to resist the urge, he glanced back at her, but found Niyera’s eyes purposefully cast away from him.  “I was wrong.  You are different, Inquisitor.”  The slide of her gaze to him was slow, and when he could see her features illuminated clearly by the firelight, he saw a sorrow that he had not expected.  “Is that what all ancient Elvhen say to gain someone’s trust?  Or is it just a trite line used by egotistical men to put their prey off guard?  In either case, Solas should have warned you that he’s already exhausted the allure of that one.”  The Sentinel’s mouth opened, but just as promptly closed without uttering a single sound.  He only nodded and disappeared down the steps.

 

____

 

Her ardent strides stirred the ephemeral mists blanketing the ground, whipping them around her ankles only to coil again in her wake.  “Solas!”  Echoing across the Fade, her voice caused her surroundings to shift, with spectral scenery rising and falling at the speed of her thoughts.  Every place she could remember that he'd ever taken her, she poured through like water through a sieve, unfettered and unstoppable.  The power of the mark pulsed in her hand, flaring in time with her heartbeat as his name rang from her lips again and again, each time more furious than the last.  When at last she'd exhausted every locale she could recall, she stood still, and her surroundings coalesced into the shadowed, sandy rises of the Western Approach.  She stood atop the massive slope of a hill, and as far as she could see in any direction, sand in mountainous lines held up the horizon and glistened under the moonlight. 

 

“Solas!  I know you hear me.  Stop cowering in the shadows!”  Her voice cracked on a syllable here or there, but for the most part, it held steady.  Her eyes turned over the darkness, narrowing into the depths as she searched for any sign of his arrival.  “Abelas told me,” she said, casting the words into the emptiness, no longer shouting.   “I know,” she hissed, and behind a bank of mist that rose on the slope of a dune, she saw movement.  Not humanoid.  A jackal or a wolf, perhaps, and her body snapped around in an effort to track it, but it was gone before she could turn in a full circle.  Hesitant eyes skipped along the sandy rises in the distance, across the horizon, but it was at her back that she sensed a presence.  Whirling around, she found herself standing face to face with Solas.  

 

With his wrists clasped behind his back, he stepped forward.  “Good evening, Inquis-,” he started, but his words were broken when her open hand connected with his cheek.  The blow was strong enough to turn his head aside, chin to his shoulder.  His mouth had fallen open, perhaps to speak, when he looked back at her, but the only sound to alight on the air was the slap of the back of her hand as it caught his other cheek.  “How fucking  _ dare _ you,” she sneered at him.  His grey-blue eyes were slightly glassy, and he held his chin in the cradle of one hand as he gazed at her.  “How  _ could _ you?” she went on, the words growing hoarse with choked emotion.  Solas exhaled a loud sigh through his nose, and he lowered his hand from his face.  “Vhenan, please,” he uttered, reaching out to take her hand, but she forcefully recoiled from his touch.  “No, don’t you dare,” she cautioned, taking a step back, boots sinking in the sand.

 

“There are many things I have expected of you, Solas, but leading me to my death was never one of them.”  His head bowed as he glanced away from her to some distant point in the sands.  “It was never meant to happen as it did.  Abelas should have been with you,” he said, turning his eyes back to her.  Her breath fell out in a loud scoff as she tilted her eyes skyward.  “Did  _ he _ know that?  It appears you did not train your agent well.”  Solas’s head shook, and he took a step toward Niyera.  She didn’t move.  “I never told him of Corypheus.  And, he is not my agent,” he said.  He took another step, explaining, “We simply had a mutual desire that required our cooperation with each other.”  Then, Abelas was not lying to her when he said he’d been unaware.  “Mutual desire?  And, what was that?” she inquired, with a slightly accusatory edge in her voice.  Solas lowered his eyes as he stood now within reach of her, and he brushed his fingers against hers.  “Your safety,” he said, and his gaze lifted to settle on hers again.  

 

While she didn’t draw away from his touch, she made no move to return it, and despite the lowered volume of her voice, there was no less resentment in it.  “You both failed miserably,” she retorted, incredulous and turning her face from him when she felt the warmth of tears rising in her eyes.  A mixture of sadness and unreasonable anger called the stinging to her eyes, and she held her breath tightly in an attempt to slow her quickly cresting emotions.  “I...am sorry, Niyera.  If there was anything I could do to take your pain-,” he trailed off, leaving it open-ended as his fingers encircled her wrist.  A shudder raked through her body when she felt his lips press against the back of her knuckles.  “Don't, Solas.  Please,” she begged, the force of her words flagging by the time she reached the  _ please _ .  A glance at him found his cheek pressed against her open hand and his eyes fixed on her.

 

“I have missed you, vhenan,” he said against her palm before she felt the warm press of his lips.  An echoing ache suffused her chest, heat trickled along every nerve, and her throat constricted on her breath.  Her body sought to betray her mind, and her fingertips whispered a light touch on his cheek.  His face tilted to her as her palm settled beneath his jaw.  The weight was familiar, skin as warm and soft as she remembered.  It was a touch for which she'd longed for two years.   Her breath hitched at the look in his eyes -- sadness, repentance, desire.   It would be so easy… “You can't kiss your way out of this, Solas,” she heard herself saying instead of rushing into his arms as she ached to do.  His face fell, still resting against her palm.   “I know,” he offered hesitantly.  She pressed her thumb beneath his chin, urging his eyes to meet hers.  She wanted him watching… Her mouth twisted into a frown when she spoke, “I don't think you do.”  She withdrew her hand, and curling into a fist, it fell to her side.  “You built me up and broke my heart...nearly broke  _ me _ ,” she said, pointedly holding his gaze in a stony grip.  “And yet, I have  _ always _ trusted you.  No more, Solas,” she finished as a whisper, and his eyes seemed to register true remorse for the first time.  

 

“You have treated me as no more than a prop on the stage of your  _ plans _ .  Something to be moved and positioned,” she said, making no effort to hide the shaking in her voice.  “You could have simply asked, and I'd have run into the abyss for you.  Instead, you chose to deceive and manipulate.”  Her eyes cut into him, then away.  “Niyera, it was no-,” he tried to interject, but she raised her voice over his.  “It is much too late for me abandon my love for you.  It's in my blood,” and she paused, glancing back to him.  “But, you have demonstrated the measure of  _ your _ love.  It goes only so far as you can use me.”  His grey-blue eyes ticked a fraction wider.  “Don't interfere with me further, Solas.  I was foolish enough to trust you the first time.  Never again.”  Her heart felt as if it might twist from her chest, and her every word was but one more cut to set it free.  She took a step back, and she hoped her legs had not trembled as visibly as it felt they did.  There was the vaguest hint of desperation in his voice when he said her name again, but she forced herself to turn from him.  At her back, she heard his voice, but paid no mind to the words it spoke.  Tendrils of Fade reached for her, seeking to restrain her at his will.  The mark in her palm flared, shattering the misty fingers, and she continued to walk away from him as she willed herself awake. 

 

Darkness shrouded her vision, and though her eyes were open, she saw nothing.  The fire in the hearth was naught but cold ashes, and the moonless night pressed against the glass of the balcony doors.  She was cold, but it wasn't something that came from outside.  Rather, it was something that radiated from within her chest, a sobering vacancy.  The chill quickly shifted into a sort of blind panic that rushed the pace of her breath and sat her bolt upright in bed.   _ Creators _ .  So many words she’d imagined saying for so long.  So many she never thought she’d need or have to say.  It wasn't that he didn't deserve it.  It wasn't that anything she'd said was untrue or unfair.  It was just the finality of it.  Solas was so skilled at distance and avoidance, and considering recent events, she had not expected his resistance to her dismissal.  Nauseous, she stumbled out of bed.  Her chambers were abruptly too heavy, too stuffy.  Clamoring to the balcony doors, she flung them wide and stumbled outside.  

 

The cold of the air was lead in her lungs, and every breath doubled the ache in her chest.  She didn’t understand this reaction, that she couldn't get a grip on herself.  Her mark flared violently as she clutched at the railing, and the Well’s voices were a mind-shattering chorus in her head.  An anguished cry, strangled and piteous, struggled from her lips, and her wobbling legs finally gave in on her.  But instead of crashing painfully to the stone of the balcony floor, a pair of arms caught her and eased her down.  She struggled weakly until she was able to turn toward her benefactor, and despite the dimness, she could see it was Abelas.   The last of her resistance left her, and she crumpled against him.  Her arms found their way around his neck, and his voice was a comforting hum of words she couldn't understand as she felt his arm beneath her knees.   

 

As he carried her inside, the few candles scattered throughout her room flickered to life, and he lowered her onto the couch.  When he withdrew his arms and moved to straighten, her grip on him tightened, and she pleaded with barely audible sounds for him to stay.  With an expression true to his name, he pried her arms from around his neck long enough to sit with his back braced against the couch arm.  Niyera immediately found a place in his arms, with her own wrapped over his shoulders.  The soothing stroke of his hand across her back, warm through the linen of her oversized tunic, calmed her.  Gave her something to focus on.  She concentrated on breathing in time with each gentle touch that rose from her back to her hair.  His palm lingered on the crown of her head before combing through her locks, a smooth brush down her back, before beginning again.  With her ear pressed against his chest, she could hear the soft rush of his breath, the steady beating of his heart, and as her own pulse slowed and calmed, she wondered at his presence.  “Why are you here?” she heard herself ask, though she’d scarcely finished the thought before it tumbled out.  His touch never stilled, never faltered, and his voice was even when he answered.  “You needed me.”  He spoke the words as if that answer were so simple and obvious, but it wasn’t to her.  All the things she’d said to him earlier, the accusations.  

 

When she lifted her face, his hand stilled on her back, and she found his eyes resting on her.  Guilt coiled in her chest at the sight of him; his expression held nothing so much as concern for her.  There was none of the scorn she might have expected, none of the enmity she deserved -- there was only acceptance.  Under his gentle scrutiny, her eyes fell aside, and she sighed.  Unease always made her fidget, and when she realized she was rubbing her thumbs along the silken length of his braid, she abruptly stilled.  “The things I said earlier,” she began, slowly coaxing her gaze back to his.  “I apologize.  I was wrong,” she said, catching the inside corner of her mouth in her teeth.  It twisted her lips downward on that side, and without realizing, the tail of his braid was tangled in her fingers again.  “Only partially,” he offered, resuming the stroking of his hand along her spine as the other tucked a lock of hair behind her ear with nimble fingers.  “You are much more than a shadow to me and certainly not a child,” he said, fingertips grazing her ear when he withdrew his hand.  The words drew his lips into a faint smile that instilled in her a measure of ease, and she turned her head to rest her cheek against his shoulder.  “ _ Ma melava halani _ , Abelas,” she said as she closed her eyes, and she felt a slight hitch in his breath before he answered.   _ “Ara melava son’ganem. _ ”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abelas and Niyera get in a little trouble, and things start to heat up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No tags, really. Just story.

“Go around to the footbridge! I will cut across the river!” Abelas shouted at her, and she immediately changed course. Packed snow crunched under her feet, and it echoed loudly beneath the white-laden trees and sweeping drifts. They’d been chasing this mage for almost a week, a Venatori gone rogue, and she’d be damned if they were going to lose him now. Distantly, she heard the crackle of ice, but it was lost beneath the noise her own footfalls were making. With all the discretion of a herd of druffalo, she ran across the footbridge, loud thudding reverberations filling the air. If she had been following Abelas’s train of thought correctly, the mage should have been flushed up this rise, but she didn’t see him nor any sign that he’d been here. She squinted against the glaring white of the snow under the sun, traced the dark ribbon of the river until her eyes caught on something that looked out of place.

She rounded the end of the footbridge at a sprint, slingshotting herself around and down the embankment with her hand on the rail. It was a half-step, half-slide all the way down to the frozen river, where she took a few stumbling steps then broke into a run. She thought she’d seen the mage, but she couldn’t make sense of why he was standing in the middle of the river rather than, say, running. And, where was Abelas? Her breath rose in thick fists of white as she ran, the moisture almost immediately freezing into frost on the fur trim of her hood. The nearer she got to the mage, the tighter her chest got, and it wasn’t from the running. Her pulse was pounding in her head like a drumbeat, and she realized the Well’s voices were growing louder and louder. For a moment, a split second, it seemed like her vision narrowed, lengthened, and she was able to focus on the mage. The ice was cracked at his feet, an open portal into the river below that was ringed in a fringe of fractures. He was plumbing the depths with his staff, and she couldn’t for the life of her imagine why until she saw the flash of a copper gauntlet break through the water.

“Abelas!” she screamed as she felt the tingle of electricity skittering up her spine and saw sparks of it dance at the corners of her vision. The mage unquestionably heard her, abandoned Abelas to his fate, and did what he should have been doing all along; he ran. Not that it did him any good. The mix of fear and anger that rose in her chest spiraled down her arms in the form of violet arcs of energy, and she slid to a halt long enough to thrust her hands upward. Eyes sheened with the crackling of energy, thunder echoed around her and the air hissed. The clench of her fists summoned whips of lightning from the air, which lashed the fleeing mage, snagging him by an arm and a leg. He shrieked, but the sound was lost to the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears and the whisper of the Well’s voices rising to a fevered pitch. With her teeth gritted and her nails biting into her palms with the force of her fists, she released another surge of energy that speared straight through the Venatori’s chest. The tendrils clutching his arm and leg held him until the twitching stopped, then dropped his lifeless body on the ice and dissipated. Her breath was ragged in her lungs and her eyes still backlit with violet when she sprinted toward the hole in the ice.

She lunged at the break, sliding on her knees right up to the edge as she stared down into the darkness. “Abelas!” she called, but she couldn’t see him. She leaned in, as if to reach into the water, but the ice beneath her groaned and cracked. Pushing herself back from the edge, she scrubbed her coat sleeve against the ice, trying to clear a window. She thought she saw a copper flash, but couldn’t be sure. All the while, the voices whispered insistently in the back of her mind, urging her to attempt the idea she’d dismissed out of hand. Ice really wasn’t her forte, but at this moment, it didn’t seem she had much of a choice. She snatched the gloves from her hands and threw them down before pressing her bare palms to the ice. The sweat on her skin instantly froze, and she hissed at the sensation. Focus. Focus. She slowed her breathing, forced her heart to stop its wild pace, and reached for the cold. Her head bowed with the effort, spilling white hair from her hood as she probed the river, searching for Abelas. There was nothing. Nothing but darkness and cold and...she took in a hitching breath as her power brushed against something in the underdark. It was him. Beneath him, in the river’s depths, the water turned to slush and rose around the elf’s body to cradle him and push him toward the surface.

Around the opening in the river, new cracks split the ice, and the water within began to roil fitfully. As the water rose, it pushed up at the fractured ice, breaking it and forcing it back, piece by piece, until the river returned what it had stolen. The slush surged up and over the edge of the ice, depositing the elf’s body before it sank back into the depths. On hand and knee, she slid over to him, pulling him close as she searched his face. His lips were blue, gold eyes hazed and frozen open, skin paler than the snow. No. This was not going to happen. With a strangled cry, she fought to roll him onto his side and sent a gentle burst of heat into his lungs along with a touch of healing. Water trickled from the corner of his mouth, but there was nothing else. No, no. She rolled another wave of healing into him, but nothing. “No,” she found herself saying out loud as she eased him onto his back again. “You are not doing this,” she pleaded, hands cupping his face, and she was startled by the stiffness of his skin. Against his chest, she pressed her palms and sent a jolt of electricity into him. His limbs flinched, a muscle in his face twitched, but no breath. “I forbid it, Abelas. I forbid it,” she was whispering, voice hoarse and throat tight as she sent another pulse. Nothing. She set her jaw, drew deep into the well of herself, and drudged the depths for every bit of healing energy she could summon. “Breathe, damn you,” she commanded from between gritted teeth and released the surge of healing along with another pulse of electricity.

Beneath her hands, she thought she felt a flutter, but his eyes didn’t move. She roughly grabbed him by the edges of his breastplate and sobbed out a breath as she shook him. “Breathe!” The back of her throat was so tight and painful with the effort not to cry that when his body began to convulse, she hardly squeaked out a sound. The tremors seemed to start in his chest and radiate outward, and with a great heave, he coughed out a torrent of water, greedily sucked in a breath, and coughed out more of the river. She rolled him onto his side and held him tight until he stopped coughing and all the water seemed gone, then eased him back on the ice to inspect him, to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. His eyes were no longer hazy, but as bright and golden as ever, and he was shivering violently, teeth chattering behind blue lips. “Hold on, hold on,” she blurted as he began to curl in on himself, and she fumbled in an inner pocket to retrieve a message crystal. Her hands were shaking as she gripped it and willed the magic in it to life. “Dorian? Dorian, I need you to send a healer,” she hurriedly said, and when he finally answered back, she breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Where are you, Niyera?” A bit frantic, she looked up, scanned the area, then said, “The abandoned tower near the old Venatori camp in Emprise du Lion. You remember the one. Abelas fell into the river, and I don’t have the healing to-,” and she drew off, and Dorian answered with a brisk, “Understood.”

“I can keep him alive, but you have to send someone now,” she said urgently. “It’s still a day’s ride from the nearest camp, but we’ll get there.” She nodded, though there was really no one to see it, as Abelas had curled into the fetal position. Tucking the crystal back into her inner pocket, she stood and worked her arms to hook beneath Abelas’s. It was a tight squeeze, his muscles rigid with tension, but she managed and began dragging him back toward the bank and the relative safety of the tower. -- By the time she got him over the threshold, she was breathless and struggled to force the door closed on its rusted hinges. Once that was taken care of, she sprinted up the stairs to see if there was anything she could use for blankets or cushion or to burn. She found several dusty gambesons in a crate, a single lantern only half-full of oil, and a medium-sized, empty cast iron cauldron. Clumsily, she lugged the lot of it down the stairs, and dumped it all by the door in her haste. “Abelas, we’ve got to get you warm,” she began to explain, and though his eyes turned up to her, they were unfocused. “But, we can’t do it all at once. The shock could stop your heart again,” she continued, tearing through the laces on the gambesons to be able to flatten them on the marble floor. When she had a nice cushion, she shrugged off her cloak, and knelt at his side, “And we have to get you out of this armor and those wet clothes.” It may have just been her imagination or an uncontrolled tremor, but she thought she saw a nod, though she’d have proceeded regardless. Piece by piece, she quickly worked at the buckles, breastplate, gauntlets and leg guards, pauldrons and vambraces removed and set aside. Then, she helped him sit to remove the chain beneath. He shuddered out a groan as she pulled at his arms, bending them out of the chain, and she whispered, “I know, I’m sorry.” After the metal was gone, it was a simple matter to retrieve the dagger from his things and slice away the soaked fabric that clung to him.

She performed it all with a type of surgical efficiency, having no time to be concerned for modesty. When she reached around him to pull off the tunic, he leaned heavily into her arms, seeking her warmth. “I’m hurrying,” she murmured, tossing the wet remains of his clothes aside. Easing him down onto the cushion of padded gambesons, she drew her coat over him and turned to finish the rest of her preparations. Several nearby crates were splintered into firewood beneath her foot, and she deposited the pieces into the cauldron and pushed the cauldron closer to Abelas. A gesture set the kindling aflame, and a warm glow suffused the area. She could hear the clattering of his teeth and felt the weight of his gaze as she hurried about her tasks: the oil lamp she lit and sat near the head of the makeshift bed. A hand to the marble underfoot and a few pulses of heat banished the ice from the stone and gave it a pleasantly warm radiance. Nodding to herself, she began working out of her own armor, which was abandoned in haste, then her clothes, which were tossed aside, all but her breast-band and smalls. There was a look in Abelas’s eyes when she tugged back her coat from his body, but she wasn’t sure if it was discomfort, pain, shock, or some varied combination of all three.

“Now,” she started as she slipped in beside him, then yelped at the ice cold press of his skin on hers. Shakily, she pulled the coat back over them both as she scooted closer and pulled Abelas toward her. “We’re going to keep your back to the fire. Yes, like that. Just rest against me,” she instructed as she slid an arm beneath his, draped over his side, and tucked the other under his head to wrap over his shoulder to his back. “Whew, okay,” she huffed, wracked with a shiver herself as Abelas buried his face into the hollow of her shoulder. “We have to get warmth to all the blood points,” she said, nudging her knee against his. “I know, I’m sorry,” she said again as he made a sound into her shoulder as she slid her thigh between his legs and snugged it close against him. She shrugged the weight of his arm closer about her, then found the wet coil of his braid at his back. Twisting her fingers into it, heat drifted along its length, drying it somewhat, before she flipped the hood of her coat up over the back of his head. “There,” she said finally, smoothing her hands across the skin of his back and pressing her face against his neck. She willed her body temperature to rise, just slightly, and a small sigh escaped Abelas’s lips. “This’ll help, I promise,” she said, then quickly followed with, “It will work.” She wasn’t quite sure if she was assuring Abelas or herself.

Stiff with the cold, Abelas didn't cling to her so much as allowed himself to be propped up by her. His shivering originated from his core and shook its way out, leaving him a mass of uncontrolled shuddering and tremors. He couldn't seem to focus on anything else. He was so cold, it was as if his skin was too numb to feel her heat. So, he tried to turn his attention instead to her voice. It was low, but not a whisper, rather it was an even and soothing sound that first explained her process, then moved on to mundane things. She spoke of her childhood, her clan. She told him the stories the Keeper used to tell her when she was a child. She regaled him with tales of dinners in Orlais, of how much she hated the balls, and even stories of some of her more exciting games of Wicked Grace. Much of it seemed trivial at first, but when he became lucid enough to realize that she was trying to keep him awake and alert, he was grateful for her efforts.

Only slowly did he begin to regain feeling in his extremities, and it began as sharp pinpoint pricks of pain. His breath hissed out against her shoulder, and for the first time, he was able to actually close his arms around her though they continued to tremor. It seemed to startle her, causing her words to falter then stop. He managed a weak protest against the skin of her shoulder, barely audible when he asked, “Please. Continue.” It helped to have something else to focus on besides the pain. Tucking his face back into the front of her shoulder, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. She smelled warm, if such a thing were possible, though the exact scent, he could not place other than to know it was her. He felt her nod against him, and her voice returned, more tales and stories, as she smoothed a hand constantly across his back. Try as he might, he couldn't stop the trembling, and he thought that their incessant shaking might break him apart from within. However, as the hours passed slowly by, the tension eased from his muscles and the tremors lessened. Despite his eyes being closed, he felt the weight of her gaze as she'd draw back to press a hand against his cheek or reach beneath the hood of her coat to massage the blood back into the tips of his ears. The small noises of comfort or relief that left him at her soothing touch weren’t something he could control.

He was incapable of resistance. It wasn't even that he wanted to resist, it was just the discomfort that comes from unfamiliarity. He'd spent his life in servitude to another. Though always exceptionally well treated, there wasn't an overabundance of creature comforts. Healing was stoically approached, clinical. Meals were of quality, but prepared with a thought to sustenance, not enjoyment. Even base and carnal bodily needs were satisfied in the least emotional manner possible. This was not to say that he’d never cared for anyone, but simply that the reality of such relationships in his world, apart from everyday Arlathan itself, were not the same. This was something different. She didn't have to do this, didn't have to sacrifice her warmth or comfort for him. She could have waited for the healer to arrive, though admittedly, that would have been torture. So, even with as foreign and unexpected as it was, he found himself surprisingly glad of it and of her. -- As warmth seeped deeper into his muscles, he found himself drifting; the luxury of her warmth was alluring, and it sang to him like a siren song. She drew him, even before this moment, and he was distantly alarmed by just how much relished the embrace of her body around his. Exhaustion tugged at him, fraying the edges of his thoughts, making them hazy and giving him an excuse to imagine they were but a manifestation of this particular trauma. He tried to stay awake, but clawing to stay above the surface of sleep reminded him too much of struggling not to slip beneath the water. So, he gave in, confident in the knowledge that she was there to anchor him.

When she felt his grip on her grow slack and the pace of his breathing slow to a sleepy rhythm, she stopped talking and rested her face against the side of his neck. He'd nearly stopped shivering, and his skin was beginning to regain the rosy blush of life. She was so relieved, and she flattened a hand between his shoulders to press him closer. Over the months since he'd first returned, they'd grown closer, progressing from strangers to acquaintances to friends. He was just beginning to really let her in, to let her see who he was beneath his mantle of Sentinel, of Mythal’s chosen. His smile was rare, but radiant, and for all his years, she found that he was still drawn in by the simplest of things. It stirred something in her that it shouldn't, something that was broken and left purposefully neglected. A piece of her that she didn't think she wanted to see revived. She shoved the thought into the recesses of her mind as she listened to the winds howl outside the tower and muffled a yawn against his neck. Her eyes fluttered with the effort to keep them open, and she was eventually overcome by sleep. -- When she woke, it was to the diffuse light of morning sifting through the dusty air of the tower, Abelas’s breath against her neck, and his arms wrapped tightly around her.

She found comfort in the easy rise and fall of his chest and in how he now radiated an enveloping heat. They remained just how they’d fallen asleep, pressed flush to each other, with his head on her arm and her thigh snug between his. Though, it was just a bit more awkward now than it had been then. Morning had the same effect on Abelas as it seemed to have on many men, and she could feel the firm press of his length against her hip. She was still mulling on precisely how to gracefully handle the situation when she felt him stir, the curl of his fingers tickling her back. From beneath her ear, she heard his voice, “On dhea, ara halla.” She leaned back in his arms enough to get a good look at him; his golden eyes were bright, a healthy flush colored his cheeks and his lips, and an expression just a tad more vague than a smile pulled at his mouth. “On dhea,” she returned, pulling her arm from around him to rest her palm first against his forehead, then his cheek as she took account of him. “Th’ea?” she asked as he endured her concerned touches without comment before she finally steadied her gaze on his. “Son. Na?” was his answer as he adjusted the circle of his arms around her, tightening his grip slightly. “Son. You look much better,” she offered as she slid her arm back down into the warmth between his chest and hers. “Thanks to you. I am sorry to have been so careless and created such a burden for you,” he said, holding her gaze steadily all the while. She scoffed and made that sucking sound on her teeth that Josephine hated as she rolled her eyes lightly at him.

“All that matters is that you’re here now and safe,” she offered plainly, and the slight incline of his head brushed his nose against hers. “Yes. I am here now,” he returned, quieter, their breaths mingling. Something in her chest lurched when she felt his breath on her lips, the brush of his nose, and though his eyes never left hers, her gaze strayed to his mouth. “You are,” was her murmur in reply. Three voices were all vying for attention in her head. The Well was a hum, low and unchanging, and there was something comforting in its tone. The other two were competing parts of herself: one spurring her onward, the other advising restraint. She was balancing precariously between the two when a fist began loudly pounding on the door. “Fenedhis,” she swore loudly as she flinched, all at once yanked from her bubble of indecision. Something more like a smile set a gentle curve on Abelas’s lips as he said, “It seems we are no longer alone.” The sound of the breath she huffed was lost beneath Bull’s shout from the other side of the door, “Boss! You in there?” She squirmed out of Abelas’s arms, and he readily let her go as she began tugging on pants and tunics and her jerkin, all the while answering, “Yes! The hinges are a bit rusty!” She took a wide step back from the door and was just finishing the laces on her pants when the door groaned, cracked, and caved inward under Bull’s shoulder. Wisps of snow curled in over the threshold, letting the delightfully warm escape she’d created float right out the door.

She sighed as she sat down on the stairs, and first the healer came through the door, then Dorian. “He’s weak, but much better,” she advised the healer, and the man nodded as he knelt by Abelas. The elf, however, wasn’t looking at the healer. He was looking at her. She only managed to break from his stare when Dorian filled the width of her vision by standing between them. “We really must discuss your taste in accommodations, my dear Inquisitor,” he scolded as he tugged the heavy mantle of his cloak tighter around him. She quirked a brow as she turned a slanted eye up to the Tevinter, “Really? Now?” Dorian shrugged casually as he motioned to Bull, who handed a plush fur cloak through the door. “You know you’d be disappointed if I didn’t,” he said as he draped the cloak over her shoulders and fastened the clasp at her throat. She had to chuckle because, of course, he was right. “Thank you for coming,” she finally said as she began to tug on her boots. A glance up found the healer helping Abelas to his feet and wrapping another heavier coat around the elf over hers, and he was no longer looking at her. “I’m sure you’ll both be thrilled to know I brought a carriage. It would be such a disappointment to freeze to death after being rescued from freezing to death,” Dorian quipped, only to be greeted with another of her eye rolls as she stood. “Are you quite done? Can we go now?” she teased, though the man seemed to genuinely consider for a moment before he gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Yes, I suppose I can save the rest for later.” She nodded, and Dorian stood aside to let her exit first, while he followed behind.

 

 


End file.
